Dick Tracy: Puttin' on the Ritz
by princessebee
Summary: 1930s Chicago. It's the middle of a Depression and organised crime has the city in a stranglehold. Ella Daniels, a young chorus girl, finds herself swept up in a world of crime & vice when she takes a job at the Club Ritz to escape poverty. FlattopxOC
1. Author's Note

**INTRODUCTION**

**Apologies to the Purists:**

- I set this story in 1930s Chicago as I wanted to write about the Depression and felt it was a strong and compelling setting for a story, providing some good motivational aspects. I know Flattop as a character was introduced to the strip in the 1940s. Call it creative licence.

- The characterisation and gangster relationships are based primarily on the 1990 movie depiction with some strip inspiration and some creative speculation. The movie itself has a bit of period crossover look between the 30s and 40s. Additionally, the tie-in comics for the movie "True Hearts & Tommy Guns" placed the events as taking place during Depression-era 30s although the movie didn't have a hint of the Depression in it.

- The passage of time is a little indefinite - I guess the movie takes place over a couple of months or so, this story takes place over a much longer period of time, but again - call it a creative licence. It's doesn't adhere strictly to a particular canon anyway. Call it all 'inspired by'.

**Reference Material:**

- Although this story does not adhere strictly to a particular canon, the following was used as insiration and guidance:

* Dick Tracy (movie novelisation)

* True Hearts & Tommy Guns (3-part comic series)

* Dick Tracy (the movie)

* Dick Tracy: Flattop (the original comic strip series)

- Most of the places named are actual places that existed in Chicago in the 30s and whilst there is some fabrication and application of imagination, the details concerning wages, conditions, etc are in keeping with reality.

**Genre:**

- This is, essentially, a "romance" fic. Two characters - one canon, one original - meet and begin an affair.

- I tend not to write sappy or saccharine romance fic and when using canon characters ALWAYS adhere to what I believe is authentic characterisation to the source material. That's the pleasure of it for me - writing convincingly and true to character. It's challenging and interesting to imagine how a hardened, cold-blooded gangster might interact with a girl he wanted to 'get to know a little better'. But my perspective of 'in character' may differ to yours.

- Whilst there is reference to and inclusion of various criminal activities, the primary story is the evolution of the relationship.

- Yes, there will be some sex and suggestive content. Some violence too.

**Original Character:**

- The focus is on an original character and the story is told from her eyes.

- Because I believe in building believable characters, the three (short) chapters are very much focused on painting a picture of her with the classic Gould characters entering a little later and Flattop in Chapter 4. Hang in there! I do this so you get to know her and hopefully like her.

- I feel reasonably confident saying this character is not a Mary Sue of the obnoxious stripe - but your milege may vary. Give it a go and make up your own mind. If you don't like it - stop reading! It's all good! :)

If you're prepared to give this story a red hot go, then thank you! I appreciate it a lot. Interested in all feedback so please do leave a review if you feel so inclined. Constructive criticism very welcome.


	2. Chapter 1

**ONE**

Ella Daniels had a dollar and twenty-five cents to her name. She needed a job.

She felt a great deal older than her twenty years, older than she thought she could ever feel.

She had thought, at the age of eighteen, that leaving behind her family in California to travel cross-country by train to join Harry Mitchell, her penpal-turned-sweetheart, in Illinois had been her proper ushering into adulthood.

Those first few months in Chicago had been like a fairytale, even if Harry hadn't wanted to get married until they were more financially stable.

As it turned out, financial stability during the Depression was hard to come by and it was easier to pledge a heart's promise in letters than in deeds.

When things hadn't worked out with Harry she had decided to stay on in Chicago. She had savings enough to get her a ticket back home, but six months of near-independence had made the prospect unappealing.

The idea of striking out alone - relying on no one but herself - had left her giddy with both terror and excitement. Her doomed courtship with Harry had been just the first step in a grand adventure that would see her blooming into a sophisticated woman of the world.

Loneliness in a big city in the grip of a depression simply hadn't occured to her then. She'd made friends of course, and her landlady, Mildred Brooks, was a kind and friendly sort and then there was her job as a waitress at Phillies Diner - but nothing had prepared her for how empty the city could feel late at night when the rent was overdue and there wasn't a soul to tell her it would be all right.

She'd done some growing up then.

And more again when Phillies had laid her off, Phil Flanders about in tears when he explained business just wasn't good enough to keep both her and his three kids. He'd pressed an extra three dollars into her hands when he gave her her wages and though she knew he couldn't really afford to, neither could she afford to refuse it. At any rate, she was still numb after being told of the termination of her employment - her livelihood - and hardly noticed.

After that, nights out at the movies or dancing to bands with her friends had dwindled as she scrimped every last penny she had and collapsed with exhaustion after full days spent in pursuit of a job. Most of her friends weren't doing much better and while they sympathised, they could hardly help. When things were really going rough, they would gather at one another's apartment for board games - but otherwise, they wanted to hit the streets and do the best they could to shake off the patina of misery that had settled over most of the population - and who could blame them? Ella would rather have been out with them too. There were few things as lonely on a Saturday night as looking out a window from a darkened bedroom - lights off to save electricity - and seeing the whole city alight, hearing the nearby strains of families gathered together in the living room or groups of young friends laughing on the streets.

Her savings were gone, no train fare home to Califonia. She spent countless hours knocking on doors in the pursuit of employment, seeking out everything from waitressing to bartending and clerical work. With her fair skin and well-mannered air, she was able to pick up some cleaning and laundry work from places suspicious of anyone looking too hardened by the dire state of the country and this kept her going. Mrs Brooks was kind and let the rent go one week, and then another and another, though she could hardly afford to. Mrs Brooks took in sewing to make her way and she let Ella help her with it for a quarter of her fees. Ella used the money to buy food and cooked for them both - not that the money went very far. Guilt compelled her to give the lion's share to the elderly Mrs Brooks and while they didn't starve, there was not much in the way of variety. Ella had come to Chicago with a fine and healthy, if small-statured, figure - but now she was thin.

But while they sped up her maturity right quick, not even the hardships of unemployment during the Great Depression had taught her all there was to yet know about the wildness of the world.

It was while she was enquiring at yet another bar that she found out about the chorus spot at the Club Ritz. Ella had been earnestly enquiring if they might have a shift she could work, even if it was just one night a week, as the bartender set his jaw and steadily shook his head when a man in a fine overcoat and fedora emerged from a backroom and gave her a glancing once-over as he passed.

"Looks like a fine set of gams beneath that rag," he commented loudly, coming to a halt as he stuck a cigar between his teeth.

Ella had started and gaped at the man, not knowing what to say. She wasn't sure if she were more offended by her best dress - at this time carefully hemmed and washed a thousand times over - being referred to as a 'rag' or at the fellow's cavalier remark on her legs.

The man had seen her startled and pink face and had burst out in a great guffaw. "What's a priss little muffin like you doin' applyin' for a turn in a joint like this? If you colour at that language, you'll go red as a raspberry after ten minutes in a bar on a Friday night! But you're a dancer, ain'tcha?"

Ella blinked at the man, a slim and short fellow with a pencil-thin moustache and similarly manicured eyebrows. "How did yo - " she began confusedly and the man interrupted with a chuckle, tipping his hat to the bartender who laughed along.

"I can always pick a hoofer," the man said, stepping forward to her, "it's all in the sway of the back and the shape of the pins. What was your grind?"

Ella stared at the man, slightly reticent to answer but not really seeing the harm. "Ballet," she finally replied.

"Ballet,' the man sniffed and shook his head, rubbing beneath his nose with one long finger. "Ballet, eh," he looked down at the ground and scuffed his shoes a bit, as though thinking. "Ballet," he mused again then looked back up at her. "Red hair too, very pretty. Cute face. Why ain't you on the stage, Miss Priss?"

She didn't like him poking fun at her, but there was something genuine in the query and so she answered:

"I wasn't good enough to be a professional ballerina."

He sniffed thoughtfully and tipped his head back to survey her. "But you're good?"

That she was sure of, and nodded firmly.

The man swept his hat off and tilted his head back to the ceiling, let out a great sigh and drummed one heel on the ground. Ella watched him all the while with a quizzical expression, knowing this bizarre and somewhat inappropriate exchange was going to lead somewhere, but unsure where that was.

Finally he looked at her again and stepped up to her.

"Ballet ain't really any good to me, but the good thing about ballerinas is they got technique, pick things up quick. Ya learn quick?"

_He was from a theater. He was from a theater. _Ella's pulse sped up and she stood straighter and shook her hair back over her shoulders.

"I do," she assured him. "Plus I know all the popular dances and can tap a little."

"Aces, just aces", the fellow said briskly, "can ya sing?"

"Very nicely," she affirmed.

"Think ya could bump it?" the man pressed on and Ella was thrown once more.

"What?" she replied, confused, and behind her the bartender started to laugh. She didn't like the way he laughed or the way the man with the fedora chuckled and waved the query away.

"Nevermind, nevermind about that for now," he jammed the unlit cigar back in his mouth and reached inside his breast pocket. "Listen, Miss Priss, I'm director of the floor show down at the Club Ritz and we got an openin' on the chorus just come up. I could put the word out and have to sort through a hundred girls beggin' for the spot, or I can be a little more discernin' and make my life that bit easier, see? I like the look of you and we ain't got no other redheads on the team so how about you come by tomorrow for an audition?" With that he presented her with a card bearing the club's name in embossed print and an address downtown.

Ella was hit with a wave of conflicting emotion as she took the card from him. A twang of dismay - _he wasn't from a theater at all_ - a thrill of excitement - _an audition!_ - a nervous uncertainty - _a floor show in a nightclub was very risque _- and finally a hopeless yearning - _money, the prospect of money!_

It was the final tremor that made her mind up and she looked from the card into the dark, bright eyes of the thin man.

"What time would you like me there?" She said and the man grinned, jammed his fedora back on his head and withdrew a pocketbook of matches to light his cigar as he turned heel.

"Let's say three," he shouted over his shoulder. "Make sure you polish those pins, Miss Priss."


	3. Chapter 2

**TWO**

The Daniels family had certainly not been well-to-do but they had been comfortably middle-class which meant that Ella had received a well-rounded enough education. Ballet had been her passion and her parents had permitted her to pursue it though had warned her it was unlikely to be a feasible career option and why would she want to worry about the theater anyway when she could marry a nice man and have a more certain way of life. But Ella had harboured fierce dreams in her heart, of sparkling white tutus and whipping unimaginably fast fouettes to the grandest of orchestras. Affording five classes a week was well beyond the Daniels' budget - and so Ella had cleaned the Ballet studios in exchange for her classes. She practiced at home every night, the back porch rail her barre and had worked hard and relentless on every weakness her teacher identified. And she had done well. Very well.

But in the end, she was simply not good enough.

It had been heartbreaking. Not quite making the cut to even audition for the Los Angeles company and her teacher having to explain to her why. She thought the tears would never stop and every sob just seemed to leave a hollower space inside her.

But her teacher, in the end, had told her that, while she may not be cut out for classical Ballet, she was still good and should pursue the theater. There were plenty of spots for girls in vaudeville if she could put together an act. Her dreams had shifted and evolved - pointe shoes became tap, tutus became spangled gowns, classical music became cheery contemporary hits. It wasn't the height of glamour and refinement that Ballet was, but it certainly had charm - and more people were willing to see Vaudeville than Ballet.

That had been part of the appeal of moving to Chicago to be with Harry. Lots of theaters, no family to dissuade her, an unfamiliar town where she was a new face...

But by then, the Depression had hit hard and there were more pressing concerrns at hand, like keeping any sort of work at all. Nevermind the time to devise and rehearse an act or the spare cash to kit up a costume.

And, as it turned out, there were twenty girls for every spot. Just getting an audition for a bit part in a chorus was nigh impossible when the competition was so fierce.

Of late, she'd been too anxious and despondent to even think of her dreams - and when they did glimmer up out of the grime of another day, they seemed the wildest flights of childhood fancy. She was often embarrassed to recall them.

But when she showed up at the Club Ritz the next day at three pm, a bundle of nerves concealing sweaty hands in pale pink gloves, there was no denying that a tiny flame of hope had been kindled inside her once again.

Though it was not without reservation - she knew exactly the types of shows that were put on in establishments like this and while it was nothing like Burlesque and she at least would be fully clothed - it wasn't going to be _much_ clothing. For many, the prospect of Vaudeville was bad enough - though no one was ashamed to take their family to a Vaudeville theater, no one wanted to see their daughter working those stages. Actresses and dancers held wide reputations as loose women from the lower classes, often with vagrant lifestyles to boot. She had never told her family of her Vaudevillian dreams for this very reason and she knew they would be horrified if they heard she was auditioning for a Revue. She could hardly believe it herself - it had certainly never occured to her as an option before and the thought may never have crossed her mind if the opportunity hadn't suddenly landed itself in her lap.

But there it was, and there she was, pushing open the bright red door of the club upon which a pasted sign indicated 'auditions today', her pointe shoes wrapped up in an old scarf in Mrs Brooks borrowed threadbare carpet bag.

The Club Ritz was an unassuming building that concealed sleek, art-deco interiors in cream, gold, red and black. The scent of cigarette smoke lingered heavily in the air and Ella, not being a smoker, had gagged a little as she walked haltingly down the corridor, her heels sinking into the plush carpet. The faint chatter of voices and a tripping piano melody showed her the way and she had entered nervously into the main club room, feeling as out of place as galoshes in a tea room.

On the stage, four women were stretching and chattering noisily to each other, some chewing gum and others smoking. Ella surveyed their rehearsal costumes and began to feel even more out of place - the girls wore shirts tied at the waist and tiny shorts with tap shoes, scarves in their styled hair, whilst in Ella's bag she had her regular rehearsal tunic and pointes, her hair pulled back into a neat chignon. She felt foolish as she compared herself to the cheery women before her - she knew this was a Revue, but somehow she had thought it would give her a professional demeanour that would be valued to treat it the same as she would any Ballet production. She didn't have any tiny shorts anyway.

The piano player tinkered away in a jovial fashion, grinning around his cigarette as he watched the girls, occasionally calling something out to one of them in a cheeky way to which they responded in kind. He was goodlooking enough, if balding, and clearly accomplished at his art.

Ella lingered at the back of the club, hesitating to announce herself. She wasn't sure why she was constricted with such a sensation of intimidation. The club was similar to many clubs she had been in before - even if the chairs and tables were stacked and the place was deserted except for the auditioneers - and there was nothing that seemed _that_ different about the five people at the stage from any of her friends. Certainly she talked freely with them and they could get very lively after a night out at dancing.

But still she was painfully aware of a marked difference between her and the world those other women inhabited. There was a certain freedom of spirit about them, a nonchalant cynicism that was unfeigned and made them seem terribly worldly and sophisticated by comparison to her - who only seemed to learn at every corner that she had a lifetime of growing up to do.

Behind her the door banged open and she jumped as the slim man from the day before strode in, hat in hands, shouting out authoritatively:

"All right, kittens, let's get this show on the road: show me what you got and make it snappy, I'm a busy man with better things to do than indulge a bunch of diva showgirls!"

The girls seemed untroubled by his brusqueness, stubbing out cigarettes and finishing stretches. The man turned and caught sight of her, lurking by the door.

"Miss Priss!" he shouted and every face in the room turned toward her. "Ya made it! Whatcha doin' back there? Get into your gladrags and hoof it, I ain't got all day!"

She caught sight of a couple of the women staring at her curiously as she darted backstage to change and flushed crimson. She was short of breath and sweating lightly in her nervousness as she hurried through basic stretches, discarding her pointe shoes and leaving her street heels on, her heart pounding hard - a situation that was worsened when she stepped back out onto the stage and everyone's eyes widened at her dance wear, a couple of the girls sniggering and shaking their heads.

"Alright, kittens, line up and let me see you Charleston followed by a shuffle then ball change, gimme a buffalo with a double pullback, heel clicks, a New Yorker and finish up with a shim sham shimmy, counts are four, four, two, two, two, two, four, on an eight beat, both feet, thank you!" the slim man was rifling through a stack of papers Ella realised with alarm were forms the other dancers must've filled out already before he looked up and caught sight of her. "Miss Priss!" he shouted, "whaddya think this is, the Opera? Tuck that tunic up and lemme see those pins! Eighty-Eight, give 'em a tune!"

Ella struggled to comply as the girls around her snickered, knowing her face must be bright red. She was frantically memorising the combination he'd just shouted at them, a flood of relief that at the least she knew all those steps.

Then the thin man was counting them in and Ella knew it was go-time.

The audition was hard, quick and rough and when it was over Ella was puffed and slick with sweat. She knew she was somewhat out of shape, not having rigorously practiced in the last six months, so she couldn't help but feel pleased to see the other girls mopping their brows and fanning themselves as well.

"Thank you kittens," the thin man shouted to them, "interviews in the office, one by one." He swept up the sheaf of papers he'd discarded on a table and glanced at the top one. "Betty first, this way please!"

A dark-haired girl popped her gum and slid off the rail separating the band from the stage where she'd perched herself, following the thin man silently.

Ella sat down by the side of the stage and waited nervously, wishing she had something cool to drink. She knew she had kept up fair enough though without the ease the other girls displayed. None of the other girls spoke to her, but they were quieter overall, no doubt feeling the same anxiety she was as the countdown began to employment or not.

Some of the interviews were quick and some took a while longer than the others, which Ella wondered at. Each of the girls left immediately after their interview until finally it was just Ella sitting alone on the stage. She supposed that since she hadn't filled out a form, she would be last.

The thin man waved goodbye to the girl before her - a blonde called Hattie - and gestured to her with a grin. "Miss Priss!" he called and she hurried over to him, heart constricting in her chest.

The office was a small room, panelled entirely in shiny red, a black desk consuming most of the space - a small chair before it, a monstrous, over-stuffed leather one behind it. The thin man, having discarded his jacket and waistcoat during the audition to lounge in shirtsleeves and braces, gestured to Ella that she should take the small chair and then perched himself on the end of the desk before smiling kindly at her.

"We never did get properly introduced," he said in a much softer voice than he'd used all afternoon and extended his hand. "Slip me five."

She took it and smiled, hoping her lipstick had not rubbed off during the exertion of audition. "Ella Daniels," she said, "very pleased to meet you."

"Pretty name for a pretty girl," the thin man grinned. "Slim Lightfoot's the name. Was a hoofer on the stage for thirty-five years before my ankles were done in and now I just direct. Good gig here at the Ritz - good dough, good shows and good people. Family, if you know what I mean."

Ella didn't, really, but smiled as though she did.

Slim sighed and thrust his hands in his trouser pockets and shook his head. "Listen, Ella," - Ella bristled a little at the familiarity but remained silent - "I'll cut straight to the chase - I can see you've never worked Revue before and we really need girls with a bit more sass. Folks come to the Ritz, they come to be cheered up, entertained - not cultured. I can see you're a damn keen ballerina, but I need showgirls here, you hear what I'm sayin'?"

Dismayed, her dreams of wages and applauding audiences crumpling up inside her, Ella nodded slowly. Her eyes stung as she remembered it would be winter soon and she would have to return to pounding the streets again the next day, all but begging people for a job.

Slim saw her distress and shifted quickly from the desk, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and proffering it to her. "Hey now," he chided gently, moving to a dark panelled cabinet against the wall, pulling from it a glass tumbler and a carafe of clear liquid, pouring her a glass. "Don't go jumpin' to any conclusions." He handed her the glass and she took it with a trembling hand. "You're obviously a quick learner and pretty darn determined too, if that pout you wear onstage is anything to go by. Though that's another thing that'd need to change - we want smilers here, not grimacers. Every night's a party at the Club Ritz and parties are fun, right? We need our girls to smile and show everybody who comes in just how fun the party is. Thing is, Ella," he bent over to her as though sharing a secret. "You're up on stage to be looked at - admired. Ogled, as matter of fact. There's gonna be a lot of boys in our crowd who'll be salivating over you like they would a nice rump steak. And you gotta make 'em want to clean the plate. Think you can handle that?"

Ella knew she was blushing fiercely and so took a sip from the glass and nearly choked. She had assumed it would be water, but it was gin. Slim chuckled.

"Ain't a drinker either, eh? Oh Ella, Ella," he shook his head a little and paced the room a little, hands back in his pockets. "Ya sure the Club Ritz is for you?"

Ella's grip on the glass tightened and she levelled her gaze at Slim, her eyes wide and quietly pleading. "Mr Lightfoot, I need this job," she said steadily, the still tone contradicting the desperation of her gaze.

Slim appraised her for a second, nodding lightly, then rubbed beneath his nose with one finger as he perched back on the desk. "Well, Ella - you're a very pretty girl and a very nice dancer. But fact is, there are lots of very pretty girls who are very nice dancers out there. And all of you need a job. I'd like to help you out. I'd like to help all of you out. But thing is, there's only one spot on my chorus and the twist who's going to land the spot is going to have to show me a little incentive."

Ella, bringing the glass to her lips again, froze. The cramped office was suddenly very quiet and still.

There could be no mistaking what Slim Lightfoot meant. Ella Daniels may still have had a lot of growing up to do, but she was not as naive as all that, and stories like this ran rampant in the theater. Fact was, Ella herself was not a virgin - after all, she'd thought her and Harry really were going to be married and she'd loved him and wanted it, so there seemed no harm in it. Luckily, there had been no unfortunate consequences to further complicate her life and there had been no other serious boyfriends since, though if she liked one well enough she wouldn't be quick to say no. But she'd certainly never done anything like this before.

She thought about her two months overdue rent, the tiresome and unrewarding task of asking at business after business for any little bit of work they might have, of the endless suppers of bread and dripping and canned beans, of the holes in her shoes and her faded dresses and how different the Chicago winter was to the Californian one and that she needed a new coat and how, all she wanted, for one night was not to be worried about the next day.

She raised her eyes to Slim, who watched her curiously, as though he was merely conducting an experiment on 'Miss Priss' for some scientific study.

"What are the wages?" she asked him quietly, to keep her voice steady.

A half-grin sidled up his face. "Twenty-five bucks a week. Cash."

_Twenty-five dollars a week._

She knew she had made her choice as soon as the words left his mouth. Twenty-five dollars a week was unimaginable wealth when some entire families were struggling to bring in twenty. Twenty-five dollars a week would mean no more sleepless nights, no more pushing cardboard into the soles of worn-through shoes, no more darning clothes for rich families for a pittance - it meant comfort, security, new things and more food - it meant life.

Ella lifted the glass to her lips, closed her eyes for a second as the bitter smell of the liquor filled her nostrils, then tipped her head back and swallowed it whole. The liquor burned her throat and pooled in her stomach like lava but she placed the glass down gently on the table and turned determined eyes to the man who held the keys to the gateway of her livelihood.

"Mr. Lightfood, I believe I can provide that incentive."


	4. Chapter 3

**THREE**

In the end, it had been horribly easy. Lightfoot was over and done with in a couple of minutes, shook her hand and welcomed her to the team.

"Good for you, Miss Priss, didn't think you had it in ya," he'd saluted her over a glass of gin while she fastened her dress. "But like I said, fast learner."

She'd wanted to scream at him to shut up but weirdly, she recognised that he wasn't trying to humiliate her. He saw nothing odd in his conduct, same as he had seen nothing inappropriate in calling her by her first name without asking if he might. He was simply of a different world and now - she supposed - she had entered that world too.

"Be here at noon tomorrow and make sure you're warmed up and ready to go," Lightfoot was all business again, tapping out a cigarette as she put on her shoes, as though their previous exchange had not even happened. But then again - that had been business too. "And bring a pair of tap shoes, eh?"

_Tap shoes_.

She'd left the club in some distress. She did not own tap shoes. She needed them, that was patently clear - but a new pair would cost her upwards of three dollars - and that was money she just did not have.

Her worries not yet over even with the securing of a job, Ella had hurried out into the late afternoon, one last traipse around the city a necessity.

Her friend, Mildred Arrows, was in the corps of the Chicago Ballet and, not knowing where else to go, Ella made her way to the Athenaeum Theatre, almost clear to the other side of town. By the time she got there, it was dusk and the dancers were warming up backstage, readying themselves for the night's performance.

For once, Ella had no time to envy them, rushing only over to Midred where she sat at the long shared dressing room mirror, dusting powder over her cheeks.

"Ella!" Mildred exclaimed in surprise. "Haven't seen you in a dog's age, how are you, girl?"

Mildred squealed when Ella told her she had a spot as a dancer, then blinked when she told her in what sort of show.

"Oh Ella, are you sure? A Revue, in those skimpy little costumes, flashing your legs like nobody's business?"

Ella could see Mildred was mildly scandalised - but then, she would be. She came from a family at a higher station in life than Ella's and had been even more sheltered. Of course, Ella had known from the get-go that she wouldn't be able to tell anyone - not a single soul - what she had done to secure the spot for herself, but seeing the vaguely troubled furrow on Mildred's brow rammed it home that bit further.

"I've been out of steady work for six months, Millie," Ella said, a little sharply. "I don't have the luxury to be choosy."

And then Mildred had been sorry of course and clasped her friends's hands in her own and congratulated her.

"I'm not here to celebrate though. I need tap shoes, Millie," Ella explained. "I got this job by the skin of my teeth and if I show up tomorrow without the right shoes and lose it before I've even begun - I couldn't stand it. Not when I'm so close. Do you know anyone with an old pair they don't need?"

Mildred had written down the name of a girl who worked at the Chiacgo Theater in the Vaudeville turns and after a hasty kiss and thank you, Ella had once again found herself dashing along the streets, the balls of her feet burning and her ankles jolting with every step.

They let her backstage at the Theater because she was able to give a name. It was rowdy, colourful, chaotic and hot - quite different from the cool calm and subdued palette at the Ballet - and crowded with a dozen acts all tripping over each other with props and costumes scattered about in disarray and loud arguments going on. At any other time Ella would've stopped to absorb every detail, drink it all in - some months ago she may even have dawdled over fantasies putting her in the spot of one of the chorus girls or as the magician's assistant - but now all she wanted to do - had to do - was secure her future through the acquisition of a simple pair of shoes.

Sally Simpson was Mildred's friend, a pretty and plump girl with platinum blonde hair and very red lips. She didn't have any tap shoes to spare, but stood up on her dresser chair and bellowed to the room of dancers that "a size six needs a pair of clackers!".

One girl came forth with a pair - much abused and scuffed but the straps were sturdy and the plates were screwed tight.

She asked a dollar for them.

Ella went cold, the surge of hope she'd felt sinking rapidly. A dollar twenty-five was all she had left right then and was all she had to make do until she was paid, unless she found time inbetween learning routines and performing to do more drudge work - assuming there was any to be had.

Luckily for her, Sally overheard and snorted. "Pfft, as if those old clompers are worth that!"

"I paid three bucks for them new," the girl protested and Sally snorted again: "What, in nineteen twenty-eight? They're falling apart! Tell her, Ella!"

The girl glared at Ella, ready to bully. She had a crooked front tooth and wiry hair and Ella felt a sudden pang of resentment and anger that such a mean girl should have a job in any theater when she couldn't even get an audition. It flashed across her mind she may have secured her spot here the same way Ella had secured hers at the Club Ritz. Ella would never have described herself as a hard girl before, but the memory of the lengths she had already gone to for her bed and board and how, really, anything else apart from cold-blooded murder was a lesser step than that, steeled her resolve.

"I'll give you twenty-five cents for them," she said firmly and Sally laughed while the girl scowled.

"That's ridiculous," the girl snapped.

:"It's what they're worth," Ella affirmed.

"Seventy-five," the girl argued and Ella thought such a dramatic drop so quickly steered things in her favour.

"Thirty," she retorted and the girl huffed, insulted at the meagre increase.

"Fifty. That's my final offer," the glare the girl gave her convinced Ella she was serious.

"Sold," she said.

Her triumph over her successful haggling was soured by the knowledge she now only had seventy-five cents to live on. It was enough - barely - and at the end of the week her worries would be over, but so used had Ella become to being overly cautious without knowing where her next income would be coming from that she simply couldn't relax. She was just now too accustomed to being in a constant state of anxiety and tension to enjoy the prospect of the future and until that first week was over and her wages in her hand, she didn't dare give over to merriment.

Funny - at the mere age of twenty she seemed older than Mrs. Brooks of sixty-two, who insisted on bringing out a long-kept decanter of brandy to celebrate when Ella explained why she'd been out so late. There wasn't much left and they watered the liquor down to stretch it further, but in the end it was enough to send Ella, clutching her newly-acquired tap shoes and seventy-five cents as though she feared a thief would take them from her in the night, into a deep sleep.


	5. Chapter 4

**FOUR**

She arrived at the club the next day early for rehearsal, her skin feeling oddly like a brittle sort of armour. She entered quietly but without hesitation and went backstage to get changed. A clear line had been drawn, she felt, between her old life and her new and it imposed upon her a sort of quiet resolve. She hadn't come this far - _gone_ this far - for nothing.

The other girls were backstage already and were very much the same sort of girls who had auditioned the day before. She'd put a little extra makeup on and styled her hair but still she felt she stood out from them in all their careless and ribald glamour. There were seven girls and she made up the eighth spot. Most of them looked up and smiled at her as she came in, a few even said hello. She took a deep breath and looked about the crowded room until she spotted the empty table, cleared of the personal possessions and cosmetics that littered the others.

As she sat down in front of the light-framed mirror, the girl next to her, studiously squeezing a pimple, glanced at her sideways.

"Shirley's replacement?" the girl asked, wiping her nose.

"Uh-huh," Ella replied, then plunged on, determined to be friendly. "Ella Daniels, how are you?"

The girl smiled and tapped a cigarette from its packet. "Jean Edwards, and just swell, thanks."

She proferred the cigarettes to Ella who smiled but refused. Jean shrugged and turned back to the mirror. Keen to keep the connection going, Ella continued on as she took off her gloves and began to unfasten her blouse.

"So what happened to the last girl - to Shirley?"

Jean stopped mid-puff and exchanged glances with another girl nearby who paused in vigorous nail-filing.

"She broke her legs," Jean replied non-committally and Ella started.

"_Both_ of them?" she queried incredulously and Jean nodded somewhat evasively, picked up a hair brush and began to comb out her chestnut locks. "How awful! Not during a show?"

"No, not during a show," Jean said, then abruptly stood up. "I'm gonna go out and stretch, see you out there okay?"

"Okay," Ella watched her go, left with the unmistakable sensation that Jean had not wanted to continue talking about that subject matter. Maybe she'd been close to Shirley or had been with her when she'd injured herself. She hoped Jean wasn't going to resent her replacing a friend. She hoped she could make some friends here and the girls wouldn't deem her stuck-up for having had a different sort of life. The girls seemed entirely disinterested in her, but then if they were used to working in shows, they would be accustomed to seeing new faces all the time. A part of her wished someone might see that she was new to the whole game and offer her some comforting words or a pat on the shoulders - another part was relieved they all seemed to assume that she was as old hand as they were.

She folded her dress over the back of her padded chair and pulled off her slip, glancing surrepticiously around at the other girls as they got changed to see what they were doing. Their rehearsal wear was far skimpier than hers, and stockings, garters and girdles were tossed aside. She had brought her ballet tunic and bloomers as she had nothing else although she tucked the tunic in to affect the appearance of a romper. She wanted to fit in and to be accepted as part of the team. She had not forgotten what Lightfoot had said to her the day before, about needing happy girls with sex appeal. She may have landed the position but that didn't mean it would last if she didn't come up with the goods. She was going to need to learn to be a good time girl if she wanted to succeed here and that meant paying attention to those around her. That meant forgetting the refined and controlled moves of her Ballet training and surrendering to the looser styles that were popular.

She had a smile plastered on her face when she stepped onto the stage and though she worried momentarily how Lightfoot might treat her - with a leer or with rudeness - that abated when he glanced up and nodded, looking at her with nothing more than professional detachment.

"Miss Priss, good to see you,' he called out as she stretched. "Girls, this is Ella, Ella these are the Girls: Jean, Dolores, Patty, Babs, Phyllis, Wanda and Peggy. Look after Ella, girls, she's new to this biz. And don't forget, Miss Priss, you are here to be looked at by a whole lotta dogs hungry for a bone so show me what ya got and _flaunt it_. Now lineup and let's go over that new number!"

At some point Ella finally twigged she was working in a mob-run establishment. When they stopped - after three solid hours of work - for a five minute break, she watched, with some alarm, as the cleaner stepped over to part of the wall and pushed it inwards, an entire section of it pivoting on hinges to reveal on the other side a blackjack table, which he set about polishing. Then Lightfoot was shouting at them to assemble again and she hurried over with barely time to process what she had seen.

As she stepped into her position and took up the steps, she almost began to laugh. Well, what else could she expect, really! Organised crime was rampant in the city and who knew how many ways it had already touched her life without her being aware of it. Of course she had never counted on getting so up close and personal - but in some way it seemed the logical progression from the sordid turn her life had taken in the last twenty-four hours.

Anxiety overtook her again as they rehearsed a few standards. Just her luck that the first prospect of steady employment she'd had in months would be with the mob! She knew there was nothing illegal in what _she _were doing - but the idea of associating so closely with hardened criminals was not a pleasant one. She kept abreast of the news, like anyone else, and knew exactly what callousness these crooks were capable of.

But she needed the job.

"Miss Priss, smile!" Lightfoot shouted at her from front of stage and she started midstep and stumbled. Damnit.

Rehearsals were long, hard and unforgiving, she quickly learned. Lightfoot was tough, though not cruel and kept them on their toes, so to speak. He watched her like a hawk, chewing on his cigar, and shouting out every time she forgot a step or made a mistake. She tried not to let it fluster her, to focus on nothing but learning her part, but in combination with the knowledge she was in the employ of gangsters combined with Lightfoot's repeated and increasingly frank admonitions: "Loosen up, Miss Priss - shake it - sell it to me - loosen up - shake that ballerina right outta ya, babe - this ain't a recital, it's a _show_ - show me what ya got - flaunt it - thrust that bust out - show me that tuchus - loosen _UP_!" she became increasingly overwhelmed.

It all came to a head when, just after five o'clock, an entourage entered, headed by a short, hunchbacked and very loud man in a colourful suit. Immediately the girls around her - who'd been flagging as the afternoon got longer and they grew wearier - straightened up and danced with renewed vigour. Ella's stomach knotted together and her skin was washed with pins and needles. She recognised the short, loud man - he was not infrequently in the papers. A famous gangster indeed - Alphonse 'Big Boy' Caprice.

Flanking him were five men, several of whose faces she also recognised from the press, all of whom were dressed equally as colourfully as their boss save one, who wore a heavy black overcoat and no hat. They were headed to the stairs that led to the private rooms above.

Big Boy was shouting at his goons in a voice that carried well over the piano and the rhythmic clack of the chorus' heels. Ella was gripped by an icy fear at the sound of that raised voice but after a moment of bellowing she realised Big Boy wasn't angry at all; rather he was being congratulatory:

"That's a job well done, boys!" he shouted. "Very well done, our business is expanding well ahead of anticipated schedule and that makes me happy. That makes me very happy indeed. You should all be proud of yourselves. Now look here, look here," Big Boy lowered his voice and drew to a halt at the stage, his men stopping with him. "Here we have it, best revue in town, look at these girls!"

One of the men in the company sniggered, a weaselly, nasal sound as the group of hulking gangsters frankly surveyed the rehearsing chorus girls.

Despite herself, Ella's skin burned. She may have been experienced on the stage, but in all her life never had she been looked upon by an audience of strangers with little on their mind but her body. She was glad she was placed in the back row as the motley group of crooks appraised the chorus in varying ways - open leers, hungry eyes or sly stares of cool interest. Big Boy himself was nodding along with the bouncy melody of the piano and staring at them intently, seeming to follow their every step, hands raised up like a conductor. He hummed along to the tune and shifted closer to the stage. Lightfoot was obsequious in the presence of his Boss and stood aside as Big Boy drew up. Ella was hit suddenly with a wave of realisation that she was dancing with practically her whole legs showing for a group of men she'd never met before, that she'd be doing the same thing, night after night in far skimpier attire, that she would be stared at with open desire, figure in lustful fantasies, maybe even assumed to be more liberally available - and fell out of step, stumbling hard.

"Hey!" Big Boy roared. "Hey, what the hell was that?"

88 Keyes stopped playing and the girls stopped dancing as Big Boy stomed the stage right to where Ella stood, quaking. The entire club was silent, all eyes fixed on Ella who stared, horrified, at the gangster's distorted face, the hooked nose and prominent chin - and the intense, mad stare of his deep-set black eyes.

Ella felt her heart plunge into her knees with terror. Hunched over, Big Boy was eye-level to her and she couldn't look away even as she was aware that the room's attention was riveted on her. Nor could she think of a damn thing to say. She knew she was gaping but couldn't get a grip.

"Sorry Boss," Lightfoot called out, "She's the new girl, just started today."

"New girl, hm," Big Boy sniffed. "You gotta learn quick if you wanna be part of the team here."

"She's been doin' real swell actually - " Lightfoot began.

"_Did I ask for your opinion?" _Big Boy whirled on him with a roar, a vein in his forehead bulging. Lightfoot shut up and sat abruptly down. The other girls jumped back and Ella noticed that one of the gangsters, the one with no hat - whose cranium appeared to be entirely flat - was smirking a little as he watched his boss go beserk.

"Come here, come here," Big Boy yanked Ella forward by the hand to the front of the stage, placing her in full view of the five silent mobsters who watched the proceedings with interest. Big Boy gestured around the club. "See that?" He queried her brusquely, "this, this is my club. The heart of my empire. Now see, everything that happens in this club reflects personally on me," his voice grew softer as he continued but no less intense, gesturing to his chest with both gloved hands. "Here, we all work together as a team, make everything run, like clockwork. Every gear must run smooth, every cog turn in time. It doesn't matter what part you play here, there is no part too small and even the slightest chink in the chain means the whole kit falls apart. We don't need nobody in here gummin' up the works. When people look to this club, they see me. If there's stains in the carpet, they see me. If there's flies in the wine, they see me," Big Boy's voice was rising again, steadily but surely. "If there's sawdust in the olives, they see me. If there's a clumsy dancer in the chorus, _they see me_!" He finished on a roar that echoed in the silent room, vein pulsing across his brow. Ella was dumb with terror and humiliation. "This is my amy," Big Boy gestured expansively, still shouting. "We are a mobilised unit, marching into history! And you - " abruptly his voice lowered again, jabbing her in the stomach with one hard finger so that she flinched. "You are here to keep up the morale. 'We must all hang together, or assuredly, we shall all hang separately.'" - Big Boy paused and then informed her: "Benjamin Franklin."

Ella longed for her humiliation to be over. There was nothing she could do or say to defend herself to the manic crimelord and she felt utterly trapped, her shame displayed for a roomful of strangers to see. Never before had she experienced anything so unbearable or felt so absolutely powerless. To talk back would be foolish, assuming she could even speak without stammering enough to be understood. She certainly wasn't in a position to march out with her head held high. Her livelihood was riding on her ability to keep this job, mobsters, flashing legs and public lectures or not.

"Now, you want this job, am I right?" Big Boy continued, pressing into her personal space. Ella was still too intimidated to move. "This job means something to you, right? Why are you here?"

Ella swallowed around the constricting lump in her throat and felt her eyes prickle. "I need this job," she whispered, her voice hoarse.

Big Boy cupped a hand behind one ear. "Hrm? What was that?"

Ella swallowed again, chin wobbling as she felt all eyes in the room watching her closely. "I need this job," she said louder, her voice wavering.

"It's not enough to need this job," Big Boy shouted, making her jump. "You have to WANT it. Now look here, you're thin, skinny - are you beat?" Big Boy queried her directly and Ella recoiled. 'I said, are you poor?"

Ella bit down on her lip, staring into the intense, demanding eyes of the mobster. "Yes," she said finally and thought she heard someone snicker, making her cheeks burn brighter.

Big Boy tapped a finger on her chest, making her humiliation worse. "You work hard here, you won't be poor. But you gotta work hard. You gonna work hard for me?"

Tears wavered behind her eyes but she held them back. "Yes, I am Sir," she managed and Big Boy stared intently at her for a long moment before stepping back and nodding.

"Fine, fine," he muttered and then appraised her as though really seeing her for the first time. "Very pretty hair," he said finally and stepped back off the stage, "Very pretty. No other redheads on the team. That'd look nice under the lights" he rejoined his men who had finally stopped watching the scene and thankfully didn't even glance back as their boss led them out, their interest clearly fleeting. "If she gets it by the end of the night, move her to the front row. If she doesn't, then kick her out!" Big Boy bellowed as he left and then they were gone and Ella was left standing alone on the stage, the other girls in a huddle away from her, Lightfoot and 88 clearing their throats.

Without a word about what had transpired, rehearsals resumed. Ella could feel tears threatening to fall and sniffed them fiercely back before stepping into her place and taking up her part. No tears, not now. She wasn't going to break down now. She had to hold it together and keep this job. How things had changed - once she would've said no job was worth all of this - going to bed with a man she didn't know, flashing her legs and the shape of her body, working for mobsters and being publicly shamed in such a brutal fashion for a missed step - but that time seemed another whole age ago. She really had no other choice - it was this, or crime.

And so she focused herself on the routine with the sort of concentration she had utilised to master her balletic studies._ A single mind, a single body_, her tutor had always said she recalled then and dedicated herself to achieving the same sort of discipline right there in the Club Ritz, no matter if it was some flashy Revue show and not the Dance of the People. Her tears dried and though her skin continued to flush it was with exertion then, not shame, and she grew steadily more involved in the dance, with its high kicks and all, until she found herself, quite unexpectedly, entering that ethereal realm where nothing existed but the strength of her body executing dance steps like poetry; instinctive and powerful - even blissful, though there were no arabesques or pirouettes to speak of.

By the time Lightfoot shouted rehearsal was over, she was actually almost smiling, her form suffused with the sort of pleasure it hadn't experienced in well over a year - the last time she had been enraptured in Dance.

The other girls, tired and fed up, turned away grumbling immediately when Lightfoot dismissed them, but she held her place for a moment as she returned to the world and remembered the dire situation of her fate. Lightfoot glanced at her, pulling a cigar from his breast pocket as though in celebration the day was done.

"Well, Miss Priss, ya done good enough to stay but uh - I don't think you're quite ready for the front row yet. Just keep to your place and dance those little socks off. Big Boy won't remember - don't you worry your sweet head about that. You start tomorrow. Be here for rehearsal at noon, make sure you're backstage at seven."

And with that, he got up and left as abruptly as the girls had.

Really, she should've been relieved. No one had treated her differently after her public dressing-down, no one had even mentioned it.

But all she wanted right then was for someone to hold her.

Fat chance of that. She hadn't thought of Harry for months, but then she did: the recollection of the comforting slip of a pair of strong arms about her undid her finally and all of the self-control she'd mustered that last day had given away to sobs which had her sinking to her knees at the edge of the stage, bending over to cry into her lap, mascara staining her bloomers.

Now that she'd given in, she really bawled. It seemed like it wasn't even the stress, terror and humiliation of the past day that she gave over to, but of the entire year and a half since she'd moved to Chicago at all. All the dreams that had faded, the promises that had been broken... the deals she'd brokered and the sacrifices... Her shoulders shook and she choked over her tears for what felt like hours, her cheeks hot and wet, her chest aching as the sobs wracked it. Slowly, she began to calm and reason started to return - she couldn't sit here crying on the stage! Someone was bound to come in and see her and what then? She shuddered to think.

And then, because of course she had thought it, she became aware that someone else had indeed entered the club.

She felt, rather than heard, them enter, a presence that padded softly over the carpet as she quieted and immediately she began to sit up, daubing hastily at her swollen eyes with the ends of her tunic.

"How much do you need?"

The voice was closer than she expected and she started and whirled around, gazing upwards to the speaker, a man who seemed to tower above her from her place on the stage floor.

It was the one without a hat, who had first smirked when Big Boy had been abusing her - the one with the head that had seemed flat - that was indeed, she could see with him up close, entirely flat.

That physiological curiosity aside, he was a strange and sinister looking man. The round, almost cherubic cheeks and cupids-bow mouth clashed against lidded eyes set deep in his face and a bulbous nose. His brow was heavy and broad, leading up into the distinctively flat cranium that set him so immediately apart from anyone she had known or seen before, topped with dark brown hair combed and coiffed carefully down a center part as though he desired to emphasise, rather than minimise, his unusual skull. In an immaculate royal-blue double breasted suit and a cigar in one black-gloved hand, he had an aura of menace about him that was palpable and somehow intensified by the stillness of his person.

He surveyed her coolly, barely a note of interest in his hazel eyes, lazily exhaling a cloud of cigar smoke. She stared up at him, tears drying on her cheeks, not knowing how to respond, uncertain what it was he even wanted - and filled with trepidation because of it.

When she did not answer, his full lips curled in a little sneer and he lifted the cigar to his mouth again.

"New skirt, right?" He queried her, his accent rough and voice brusque. She didn't like being referred to as a "skirt", but as she was quickly learning around here - what she didn't like didn't seem to matter much. So after a second's hesitation, she nodded cautiously. He held the cigar between his teeth and reached into his pocket, withdrawing a wallet.

"Customers don't wanna see pretty girls cryin' no tears, sweet-pea," he informed her frankly - and with just an edge of contempt. "Whatever you owe, get it sorted out and make sure you get up smilin'"

With that he drew a hundred dollar bill from his wallet and held it in front of him.

Despite her nervousness, Ella couldn't help but stare in awe at the note. Not even before the Depression had she seen such a sum of money at one time - represented in just one slip of printed paper. Her lip trembled and she felt a strange and overwhelming mix of yearning and hope and anger - anger that so much could rest on something that seemed so frail and inconsequential, that evaded so many and lined the pockets of so few.

The flat-headed man smirked around his cigar when he saw her expression and pulled another hundred from his wallet, holding both notes toward her.

_Two hundred dollars_.

Two hundred dollars. She felt dizzy at the thought of so much money. She would be able to pay Mrs. Brooks her back rent and then some. Stock up on tinned food, flour and powdered milk - even coffee - for months to come. Fresh fruit and vegetables, if she budgeted carefully, every week. Plenty of meat. Even new shoes - maybe even stockings, if she were very, very careful. Ella felt a great hunger knawing away in her stomach, steadily expanding upwards and outwards to consume her whole being. She wanted that money. She wanted it bad.

Then she noted the gangster had not fully extended his arm. She would have to move to him if she wanted the money. He was offering but not giving - she would have to take it. And then she remembered who she was dealing with and that if she took it, she was going to owe him. And she could easily imagine how.

She looked down at knees, pushed her hair back over her shoulder and wiped at the mascara stains beneath her eyes.

"How do you want me to repay you?" she asked finally, looking back up to the mobster's dark eyes with her own red ones.

He snorted quietly and sneered again, folded the two notes in half with one hand and took the cigar from his mouth with the other.

Then he dropped the money to the floor by her feet. "Call it a tip," he said disinterestedly. "On account of workin' so hard," he turned and began to walk away, puffing on his cigar. "Oh and - " at the door he turned back to her for a moment, the corner of his mouth quirked just a little in a smirk. "Break a leg, huh?"


	6. Chapter 5

**FIVE**

Six weeks later and Ella had more or less settled in. In the end she had spent only ten dollars from her "tip" and the backrent for Mrs Brooks and kept the rest for a rainy day. She was paid in cash at the end of the week, as promised, and for the first time in many months felt the lightening of a great burden from her shoulders.

But working at the Ritz was hair-raising, to say the least.

The clientele were generally the indolent rich or the wannabes, mostly harmless and interested in nothing else but a good time. They came and gambled, ate, drank and partied until the early hours. But a steady stream of gangsters moved in and out of the club at all times. During rehearsals they held business meetings upstairs, hulking past the stage in their flashy suits, many of them with distinctively grotesque features and mannerisms. Sometimes they paused to watch the girls, sometimes whistled or made frank remarks. The other girls were untroubled by it - many of them even flirted back. After a few days she finally managed to smile easier in response to the mobsters' cheek though she was not so quick with the charmingly pert replies of her peers that made the gangsters bellow with laughter.

In the evenings, Big Boy held court at the best table in the club, entertaining many of the same crooks as his guests. They liked to do it up big, partying merrily and loudly to their heart's content and more than once things got out of hand - china smashed and tables tipped, even squirmishes and scuffles broke out though she had yet to see anyone brandish a gun. It seemed, out of respect to Big Boy, they knew better than to tear up the joint and settled for fisticuffs - though all stopped when Big Boy shouted the word.

The chorus performed three numbers through the night and two back up for the star torch singer - a sultry and perpetually bored platinum blonde who went by the name Breathless Mahoney and who was involved with Big Boy. She showed no interest in the chorus - or much of anything else for that matter - and kept to herself, slinking around the club in horrendously expensive dresses, seeming to drink almost constantly. Ella supposed you would have to be always a little drunk to cope with Big Boy.

Though Ella's heart had raced and the skimpy costumes with their spangles had made her feel dreadfully self-conscious and exposed that first time she stepped up, she had surprised herself when the performer in her had taken over as the hot stage lights had blazed upon her skin and she had danced without fear or reservation. She was even more startled when the first show was over and she had listened to the applause of the audience and felt herself glow with genuine enjoyment, the smile on her face natural and beaming.

Backstage, as she'd peeled her costume from sweating skin to change into the next, she found herself finally conceding that the numbers were well-choreographed and the songs clever and catchy - there was nothing vulgar or obscene in anything they did, it was just a little suggestive and wasn't even really as bad as she'd first thought.

Not that most of her family or friends would really understand that - but despite herself, Ella had come to enjoy performing at the Club Ritz, to relish a crowd of faces turned towards her smiling and admiring. The stage was a wonderful and magical place as she played on it - even if the surrounding environments were somewhat unsavoury.

As the chorus took the stage the mobsters would hoot and holler, applauding and whistling wildly. They did similar when the girls departed, some going so far as to dart forward to slap a girl's rump, the lot of them laughing uproariously. It was made tolerable by the fact they would not infrequently also take the time to tip any girl that especially took their fancy - and tip generously.

"They just like to flash their cash," Jean remarked to her as she she removed a fifty dollar bill from her garter that had been placed there by a gangster known as 'Pruneface' - an apt moniker given that his face was characterised by dozens of deep, vertical wrinkles. "Like to make the point to us - who's in charge, ya know? I sure as hell don't mind - " she grinned and slipped the fifty into her purse. "Doesn't do me any harm."

The flat-headed crook's "generosity" made more sense to Ella then. In taking the money she had felt cowed but not in a position to knock it back. It had certainly driven home to her how powerless she seemed to be over her own fortune and whilst the stress of financial woes had lifted and she was enjoying her work more than she had expected, her mind was not in the least untroubled.

For one thing, she couldn't forget that she was rubbing elbows with hardened criminals. The police had raided twice since she'd begun working there and whilst there were quick and clever ways for all traces of gambling to be concealed throughout the club, it was still a terrible stress to watch the law enforcement rummage around and worry that she could be implicated in some way - simply by association - because her wages came from mob money.

And whilst the gangsters either ignored the chorus girls entirely or engaged with them in only the most jovial and friendly fashion (with the exception of Big Boy, who flew into frightening rages at everyone around him at least once a day), whilst she'd never seen any direct evidence of deadly violence or even particular cruelty, there was no mistaking the men who made up Big Boy's army were dangerous - it was in the hardness of their eyes and the arrogance of their smiles - in the fearlessness with which they entered a room, assuming obsequiousness from all within - and getting it.

And for another, even if the flat-headed crook had dismissed the two hundred dollars as a "tip", she couldn't help but feel indebted. It may not have been all that much money to him, but to her it was a vast amount - two months wages at her current salary, half a year's worth in tighter times. And the man was a crook and a villain and she'd read plenty of stories about how once you owed the mob, you owed them for life. She felt a constant gnawing worry he'd collect the debt in some nefarious way.

It hadn't taken her long to connect the unpleasant way he'd said 'break a leg' with her predecessor - Shirley, who'd literally broken both hers. It was a terrifying thought, so much so that she didn't dare ask around backstage and so have her worst fears confirmed.

But she did watch the flat-headed man who was - obviously enough - called Flattop by his associates, very carefully. She didn't know if that were a given name or a nickname - so many of the mobsters had them - for it was all she'd ever heard him referred to as. Although the various crooks and villains who patronised the Club Ritz were distinctive in appearance, he perpetually stuck out due to his never wearing a hat - such objects clearly being unsuited for his unusually shaped head.

Over the weeks she worked at the Club Ritz, she paid as subtle attention as she could to the man, but he seemed never to notice her in the least. She quickly figured out he was Big Boy's 'right-hand' - the one in which the crime lord placed the utmost trust. As such, he was perpetually in and out of the club on whatever mysterious duties were given him. Flattop's demeanour was quieter and more reserved than the other crims, who were constantly posturing and talking about themselves, but his stillness seemed to come more from a lack of need to show off than genuine reserve. He carried himself with as much arrogance and confidence as any of them and somehow seemed the more threatening for his coolness than the others with all their guff. Despite his reserve, he seemed to find a good many things amusing, though he tended only to express this with a smirk and a snigger. He never hesitated and was quick to assert himself where he deemed it necessary and while he was sparing with his words, he never feared to speak. He may not have been as effusive or grandiose in his ways as some of his compatriots, but he had his own way of expressing himself - and took a quiet pleasure in his deeds - whether it was smoking a cigar, having a word to one of the other crooks or just striding along the corridors heading purposefully towards his next objective.

Ella was naturally curious, as anyone would've been, in the way these crooks organised themselves and found that backstage gossip was the best way to get information - not to mention the easiest way to make friends amongst the chorus girls. Technically Big Boy was King Pin but some of the other major players, like Pruneface, Texie Garcia and Influence, at least held rank with him, even if he oversaw all operations. The others occupied varying levels depending on the size of their territory and the type - some of them were seriously two-bit, but as Big Boy himself had impressed upon her, no part was too small in Big Boy's empire - though some were more equal than others.

And there were Big Boy's personal henchmen - Itchy, Mumbles, Ribs and Flattop. Being in his gang, they were ranked just under Big Boy himself - and yet, even while Ella had never seen Flattop contradict his boss or talk back, somehow he seemed to stand apart, outside of the heirarchy and within his own order. To a one, they treated him with respect. It was clear to see there was no love lost between any of them although some got along better than others. But at the least, no one was rude to Flattop or dismissive as they were to some of the lower-ranking dealers. No one was particularly friendly, but they were courteous and it was evident he was held in some regard. Those in the upper echelons treated him as an equal, those further down the rungs were cautious - even fearful.

She'd queried Jean about it one evening between numbers, as the girls lounged in their lingerie, smoking, playing cards and drinking.

"What I heard was he's an independent contractor - supposed to be very good at what he does, best around," Jean divulged happily, pouring herself a whiskey. "Goes around enforcing, punishing, intimidating - you name it. Likes it, too. So technically he works for Big Boy but could skip out at any time. Business has been good for them though, so why would he? Seems to me the type to go with the flow if it's moving the way he likes it. Of course, it pays not to know too much about what goes on and they play it pretty close to the chest anyway but that's what I've heard," Jean caught Ella's eye and grinned a little, dimples in her rouged cheeks. "He's plenty rugged, ain't he? You think he's cute?"

"No!" Ella hastened to say, horrified. She was reluctant to tell anyone about the two hundred dollars he'd given her, thinking it was compromising in some way. Jean mistook her blush though and just grinned conspiratorially over her glass.

"You should make eyes at him sometime. He's married to his job but he ain't dead. They all like to take us out on dates now and then and, as I said, they love to flash the cash." Jean rubbed the fingers of one hand together and winked.

The thought of being so deliberate as to flirt with the intimidating gangster made Ella feel vaguely ill. She already felt way in over her head on that front and was reluctant to dive in any deeper. Jean continued to misunderstood her expression and laughed.

"Are you shy? Jeez, Ella, you're not quite one of us yet, are ya? Want me to set it up? His pal Itchy takes me out a bit."

Ella was alarmed, and squirmed in her dresser chair, turning to the mirror under the pretence of powdering her face. "No, no Jeanie, thanks but no. I'm not into that."

Jean recoiled a little and pouted. "It's not what you think, you know. Not unless you want it, of course. Mostly it's just drinks and dancing. Don't gotta be uppity about it."

Ella was distressed. "That's not what I meant, doll, really," she turned back to Jean with an entreating expression. "I just don't wanna get involved, you know?"

Jean set her jaw for a moment and then relented, shrugging her shoulders before picking up a cigarette. "I can understand that," she agreed, her voice still a little terse. "But I'm only in it for the fun."

Ella smiled, hoping she hadn't upset the tentative friendship. "And I can understand that."

Her conversation with Jean piqued her curiosity further. Now that she was financially stable, visits to the cinemas resumed again and the mobster movies she watched there compelled her to more closely observe all the various felons who made their way through the Club Ritz. It was bizarrely fascinating to read in the newspaper about the criminal exploits underway in the city and to think she was often in the same room as many of the possible perpetrators - frightening, but fascinating. Since the chorus girls could mingle in the club after their set if they wished, Ella found herself growing bolder and joining Jean and Dolores at the bar for a drink where they watched the gangsters in their revelry.

Some of the chorus girls had boyfriends, but Ella realised that the ones who didn't were more than a little keen to find one in the club. Dolores and Jean were high-spirited and didn't hesitate to flirt with the gangsters or sit and drink with them. Ella supposed she couldn't blame them - in these times, men with a steady cash flow were hard to come by and they were young and wanted to have a good time. Perhaps they'd also been suckered in by the seeming glamour of the criminal lifestyle - they'd gone to the movies once or twice all together and it was always gangster films they saw before going to a tea house to gossip over the colourful characters that populated their place of employment. Jean and Dolores discussed their dates with frankness, showing off gifts of kid gloves and silk stockings - Dolores even scored a pair of ruby drop earrings from Pruneface that she wore everywhere regardless of the hour, styling her hair away from her ears so they could be seen by all. Jean and Dolores were discreet about the precise details of their dates - at least around Ella - but it was patently obvious Dolores was the wrinkled mobster's mistress. The little moue of discontentment that twisted Dolores' lips whenever Mrs. Prunesti's name came up was telling. Several of the mobster's were married, from what she heard, and she did wonder a little what the point of getting caught up with them was. It all seemed too dangerous and, at the very least, bound to end in tears. And the ones who weren't...

Like Jean said, Flattop was a workaholic. He liked his fun but he never let down his guard and always seemed to be keeping on eye on all the dealings around him. He was ever at the ready to put down his drink and resume business. Business was important to these men, Ella understood, that's why they stayed on top. Chasing tail had to wait.

Flattop brought a girl in with him now and then but it was rarely the same one. The nights he was accompanied, he made sure his girls were looked after by waitstaff and often sat with an arm about them, but they did not get the best of his attention. But the couple would usually leave early, he ushering her out with a gloved hand in the small of her back.

The thing that was beginning to confound Ella, as day by day went by and she watched the gangster who had so disinterestedly given her two hundred dollars without asking anything in return, was that not once had he so much as glanced her way let alone approached her to call on the debt Ella felt convinced he eventually would. Rather than abating her anxiety, it intensified it. She could not believe a mobster would be so generous without wanting anything in the way of repayment. It could only be a matter of time before he called to collect and Ella lived in fear of that day. It was the one stress she could not shake off, that did not ease but only seemed to grow, like a cancer inside her and manifesting in a near-obsessive focus on the crook, riveting her attention on him more and more as the weeks passed.


	7. Chapter 6

**SIX**

Jean noticed her watching and teased her about it one late afternoon when they were out trying on dresses:

"You're a dark horse, Ella," she ribbed from the change room. "I didn't think you'd last the week when you started, so prissy and modest and after that hullaboloo with Big Boy, well - now you're not only starting to fit in but you're smitten by a gangster!"

"Turn it off," Ella had replied irritably, stomach churning. "It's no such thing - he just tipped me once and I wonder why because he never looks at me." She left out any further details.

Jean had laughed and stepped out in a bright yellow satin frock, looking like a flower. "Aw, is your pride hurt? I wouldn't take it personally - he's mostly business in here. Loves girls - they all do - but he doesn't make time for them. That's why he's always got a different dame on his arm. Well that's what I think - we had a girl here a while back who was goin' around with him but when he kept standing her up for business, she tried playing hard to get and he just passed her over," Jean paused in front of the mirror, admiring her enviable figure in the party dress. "You gonna try on that green silk?"

Ella hesitated. She badly wanted to, but the frugality she had learned in her hard times made her reluctant to splurge and the dress was not cheap.

"Come on, Ella," Jean said in exasperation and bundled Ella and the dress into the changeroom. "You're in bad need of something flash to wear at the bar."

Ella sighed and began changing. As she pulled the dress from its hangar, the soft material slid in her fingers, deliciously sensual and she felt a powerful desire for it.

Outside, Jean continued mischievously: "He don't like being told what to do, that's for sure. Sets him off real quick. But I've seen him be cute."

Ella knew she was being baited as she stepped out of her dress, the air fresh as she stood there in her stockings and lingerie. She tried to resist the urge to rise to it, and failed.

"Have you just?" she finally said dryly and Jean tittered.

"He's never taken me out," Jean said reassuringly, as though it would concern Ella if she had. "But I've been out with other fellows when he's had a girl. He puts on a good show but without showing off, if that makes sense." Ella was slipping the green dress over her head, the silk cool and slippery against her skin. "You know how some fellas gotta make the point by being all loud and bossy and throwing their weight around and sort of end up looking like wimps anyway? Ya know 'waiter, your finest bottle of cham, on the double!'? Well, that first time we all went out, we were at the Purple Crackle and it was crazy busy in there and I thought for sure it'd be a bullfight to get served - but Flattop just caught the maitre'd's eye - I saw it, he didn't even gesture or anything, just a look - and the next thing I knew, they were bowing and scraping like we were the Presidential team. We girls were all so impressed and I'm pretty sure his date went straight home with him."

Ella flushed as she adjusted the dress around her. It worked in her favour that Jean thought she simply had a crush, but she didn't really want to know details like that.

"Not that he doesn't think very highly of himself," Jean snorted. "But they all do. You just gotta rub them up the right way and they're pussycats really. Men are all the same in the end - all bluff and bluster. Yowling and growling and carrying on like wild tomcats - but stroke their ego and they just purr. Is that dress on yet? C'mon, I wanna see!"

Ella smoothed the silk over her hips. There was no mirror in the change room but already she felt like a princess in the fine dress. She took a breath and pulled aside the curtains.

Jean's eyes widened and her jaw dropped in excitement. "Oh my god, you look like a movie star!"

With a thrill, Ella stepped over to the floor-to-ceiling mirrors and squealed to see herself.

Six weeks with a better variety of healthier foods and Ella's figure had filled out again, bringing the best out of the dress. It was a rich jade green that made her coppery hair shine bright and her pale skin glow. In the bias cut that was most popular right then, the green silk moulded over her hips and stomach and fell to her ankles before fanning out in a little train behind her. The dress was low in front, revealing a healthy amount of her decolletage, and was cut to the waist in back. It was the most daring dress Ella had ever worn and she felt impossibly glamorous in it, loving her reflection in the mirror freely.

"You have _got_ to get it," Jean insisted and Ella didn't argue, her mind having been made up the instant she saw the dress on. "That'll stand out, unlike that drab black velvet thing you've worn to death." Jean saw the pleased flush on Ella's cheeks and threw her arms about her in a tight hug. "One of us, one of us!"

That evening after the shows were done, Ella slipped into her new dress, drawing the attention of all the girls backstage. In six weeks they had got used to her and were friendly enough but never had they all gathered around her to fuss and admire. They all had pretty dresses and showed them off amongst each other - but they'd never seen Ella so glam. They ooh'd and ahh'd over the material and the cut, wanting to know where it came from and how much it had been.

"You clean up alright," Babs said, not bothering to disguise her surprise. "Who'd have thought you had it in you, Miss Priss?"

Ella hated the nickname Lightfoot had established and squirmed to hear it. Jean gave Babs a shove and moved to help Ella with her hair, combing it into a stylish chignon. Ella wore paste and rhinestone earrings sent to her from Harry for her seventeeth birthday and saw them sparkle as she touched up her lipstick. She wore long white gloves loaned from Mrs Brooks and her silver dress shoes were on her feet. The dress hid the scuffs on the heels - she'd reasoned one extravagance for the time being was plenty.

"Ready?" Jean smiled at her brightly and Ella took a deep breath and picked up her purse.

"Ready!"

Stepping out in so grand a dress was an event for Ella, but the clientele of the Club Ritz were used to fancy dresses. Her excitement subsided a little as they stepped out into the club and the room did not stop and hold its breath to behold her. Not that she'd expected quite that response, but it was oddly anti-climactic that the music and chatter continued on easily as they made their entrance.

But as they made their way to the bar, however, Ella's eyes feverishly darting about the club, she noted that several male heads did swivel their way and eyes did linger on her. She began to feel nervous as Jean led her easily through the crowd, suddenly aware of her bare back and arms and plunging neckline - not that the dress gave her any cleavage to speak of, she was still used to high-necks and long sleeves. She wasn't sophisticated and confident like Jean - she looked the part but could she carry it off?

It wasn't hard for Jean to talk her into a champagne - Ella usually stuck to seltzer and lemon but she needed something to still her nerves. Dolores joined them in shiny red to match her cherished ruby earrings and the three girls toasted the night. The first champagne went down quickly and another was ordered. Ella's head began to buzz.

"Well, look what we have here, a row of pretty flowers," the distinct nasal voice interrupted their chatter and the girls turned to greet the gangsters who'd sidled up to them.

The one who spoke Ella knew well enough was Itchy Oliver, who Jean often went about with. Sure enough, Jean was beaming and proffering her cheek for the gangster to kiss. Ella personally found him repugnant - it wasn't so much that he was ugly, it was his sidling, weaselly and too nervous manner, the painfully grating voice and the constant _scratching_, as though there were bugs crawling beneath his skin. She didn't know how Jean could stand it. He leaned forward and planted his lips against Jean's cheek, pressing them there hard so that she squealed and giggled. Dolores was leaning back with her elbows on the bar, bust jutted forward. The two showgirls were in business-mode now and Ella recalled what Jean had said earlier about flattering their egos and watched with fascination.

The other two mobsters with Itchy were a heavyset man with a large head in which were set the flintiest, beadiest eyes Ella had ever seen - and, just her luck, Flattop, who looked upon the scene with his usual apathetic expression, lidded eyes cool and collected.

She went cold as Dolores and Jean greeted the men, and gulped down the rest of her champagne.

"Hiya Lorrie," Flattop drawled at Dolores, hands in the pockets of his tux. "Prunestri had to go. Asked if I'd take you out for him. Whaddya say?"

Dolores shook her hair back and smiled brightly. "I say I'd be honoured, Mr. Jones."

The flicker of a smirk played on the cool crook's lips. Ella's pulse rate sped up. So far he han't looked her way - but then Itchy was giving her a once over and leering.

"Who's your pretty friend, girls?" and all eyes swivelled towards her, leaving her with an expression like a deer caught in the headlights. "A new face is a sight for sore eyes!"

Jean slapped his arm playfully and he sniggered. Then Jean was gesturing towards her in presentation.

"Boys, this is Miss Ella Daniels. Ella, this is Mr. Eyes, Mr. Oliver and Mr. Jones."

One by one, Ella shook hands as she was introduced, not missing the roving way the beady-eyed one looked her over or the extra squeeze Itchy gave her hand. The jumbled combination of her nerves and the two champagnes she had had in quick succession left her reckless and when Flattop took her hand in his leather-gloved one, she burst out: "We've met!"

The mobster raised his brows almost imperceptibly, then looked her over a little closer. With a mild horror, Ella realised he hadn't recognised her.

After a second's pause, he nodded. "So we have. Pleasure to see you again."

He let go her hand and turned his attention back to Dolores, leaving Ella feeling oddly deflated. Regardless of what he'd said, she didn't think he knew her. It was true, that day she'd been in a dreaful state - swollen red eyes and no makeup, her hair pulled back and drabbly dressed - but she didn't think she was beyond all recognition. Which could mean only one thing: he'd simply forgotten her.

"Oh say yeah, I remember you!" Itchy was whining, one arm around Jean's waist, "Boss chewed you out on your first day."

Flattop glanced her way again and this time a spark of recognition was there, though he still seemed disinterested. Ella flushed to have the incident of her humiliation brought up in public, but Itchy was grinning widely. "Hey, you've come a long way," he finished lecherously, earning himself another playful slap from Jean, to which he only sniggered again. Ella thought he enjoyed it.

"It takes some brass to survive in this game," the beady-eyed one said to her, his voice a rumbling baritone. "How about a drink to celebrate?" He grinned at her in what he clearly thought was a charming way. Flustered, Ella could only accept and Mr. Eyes gestured to the barman. She knew she should be relieved that the Sword of Damocleus she'd imagined hanging over her head was in fact non-existent, but instead was oddly vexed.

"Call me B.B.," the mobster said to her when they chinked glasses. He was rough looking - square head on a ham neck and jagged scars down one side of his face, though a head shorter than his two pals. "Where you from, Sugar Lips?"

She didn't really want hoodlums knowing too much about her and her family; nor did she really feel in a position to refuse to divulge. But as she gave brief and evasive answers to B.B. Eyes' personal queries, she became aware he was not particularly paying attention to her answers, instead focusing his gaze first on her neck and then her bosom before dragging it down the length of her body and up again. She felt her cheeks colour at the scrutiny. "He could at least be subtle about it," she thought crossly, her feelings of frustration intensified by her inability to do anything.

Next to her, Jean, Dolores, Itchy and Flattop were involved in their own conversation, the two men laughing occasionally at the girls' merriment, Itchy's snigger rising high over the din. Flattop caught B.B.'s eye, who nodded, then Flattop was patting Dolores' shoulder and the whole group was beginning to move.

"Where we going tonight?" Jean gulped the last of her drink down as Itchy took her free hand to assist her from her stool.

"Villa Venice," Flattop replied and the two girls squealed. Ella had heard a little about the exotic nightclub, with its revues that were a good deal more risque than what the Ritz offered. It was supposed to be very exclusive and very colourful. She felt a queasiness in the pit of her tummy as she realised she was expected to join them.

"Come on, Ella, you'll cream to see the Venice!" Jean chirruped and then B.B. was offering her his arm

Just how did you say 'no' to a gangster?

The answer, of course, was: you didn't.

So no one was more surprised than her when she stood up and heard herself say: "I'm awfully sorry, but I can't go out this evening. My landlady is ill and has no one else to take care of her. I should've already been home."

Jean and Dolores widened their eyes at her though kept their lips pressed tight shut. Itchy blinked a few times behind his thick glasses and B.B. took a step back and tilted his head, beady eyes bright. Even Flattop took note, turning his head just a little to glance at her from the corner of his eyes. She thought she almost saw him smile and there was something that glimmered in his eyes as though he were truly taking notice of her for the first time.

Heart pounding but feeling suddenly liberated by her assertiveness she plunged deep into her performance reserves and turned to B.B. with an apologetically gracious smile, taking hold of his arm in both her hands.

"I'm truly sorry, Mr. Eyes, I so would've loved to accompany you. Won't you forgive me?" She was terrified by her boldness, no less so because the gangster's pride was clearly wounded and he was fighting back a discontented scowl.

But aware he was being watched by the others, he smiled around his grimace and managed to say in a grudging tone: "Sure, kitten. Hope the old dame picks up."

"Wanda could come!" Jean blurted out suddenly. "She'd love to! I'll go get her!" And with that she she darted away to the other side of the bar, where Wanda was smoking up a storm and telling jokes to the band.

Meanwhile, the others were turning away from Ella and she felt a cold sense of relief at having escaped such an uncomfortable situation. She smiled her goodbyes as Wanda and Jean rejoined the group and the six made to leave.

Flattop was the last to step away and right before he did he turned to Ella and gave her a frank once-over. Ella had been looked over before - as lately as moments ago, when B.B. had been appraising her - but those had been the unconscious gawkings so habitual to men in the company of women. This scan was deliberate and lingering and he clearly intended for her to be painfully aware of it.

Ella burned hot under the inspection and gripped the bar to keep her steady, wanting nothing more than to flee the scene. Flattop flickered his eyes up to her face again, his stare cool and measured, and held her gaze for a moment. She hoped he could not see how red she was under the muted lights of the club.

His lips twitched in a smirk. "See ya 'round, kid," he said, something taunting in his tone, and then turned heel and walked away.


	8. Chapter 7

**SEVEN**

The next day rehearsals began for a new number. Jean darted in a few minutes after noon, still in her yellow party gown from the night before.

"Walk of shame, walk of shame, walk of shame!" Babs and Patty took up the chant and Jean swatted them all with a snort and a laugh. She wrestled out of the dress and opened the chest beneath her dresser table in her girdle and stockings, pulling out her rehearsal coulottes and blouse.

"Those in glass houses..." she retorted playfully then smacked Ella lightly with her blouse. "You, dollbaby, are positively whacky. You missed a great night. What the hell were you thinkin'? B.B. was pretty bent out of shape. Lucky Wanda is a seasoned flirt and coaxed him into a good humour again."

Ella pouted, tying a scarf around her hair to keep it off her face. She wore high cut coulottes and a wrap around blouse in bright colours like the other girls now. "I told you, I didn't want to get mixed up with them."

Jean shook her head as she unfastened her garters and stripped off her stockings. "It doesn't pay to make these men angry, Ella. Anyway, it's not like you get involved with their business. They keep us right out of that stuff."

Ella sighed and touched her forehead to her fingertips. "But what happens if I said yes? The next time it's something else - then it gets harder and harder to say no without making them angrier and angrier - and before I know it, I'm in too deep. Maybe I already am," she muttered, thinking about Flattop and that two hundred dollars.

Jean shimmied into her coulottes, seemed about to say something else and then frowned as she fastened them, the satiny fabric straining over her hips. "I've put on a little weight," she said displeasurably, scrutinising herself in the mirror.

"Too many champagne suppers," Patty quipped, strutting past and whacking Jean loudly on the bottom. Jean glared indignantly at the blonde's back.

Before Jean could resume their conversation, Ella stood up and swept out of the dressing room to stretch.

On stage as she went through her splits she sighed and thought about the previous night's encounter, though it hadn't much left her mind since. It was oddly humiliating to think of all the weight she'd placed on that brief encounter with the flat-headed gangster almost two months ago only to find out it had not even been worth his remembering. If she'd been quiet, he may never have recollected her at all.

But now he had and given her that intense look over as well. She wondered what it meant - had he just wanted to intimidate her, or make sure he remembered her - or simply remind her she owed him something? His interest had piqued when she'd refused B.B. Eyes - maybe they were good pals. Whatever it meant, it had left her with a distinct sense of unease that had disrupted her sleep with strange nightmares of him breaking into her room in the dead of the night, gun drawn and cocked, heading straight for her where she slept, unaware. She'd woken, soaked with sweat and heart pounding, huddling beneath the covers as she'd done when she was a child, terrified of the boogeyman.

As 88 Keyes began to play them the new song they were to perform - a bouncy number by Gershwin that had been a mainstay in the charts: "I Got Rhythm", the velvet curtains that hung between the club and its entry hall were whisked back and Itchy and Flattop entered, Flattop leading the way, hands in his pocket, stride long and cocky as always. Ella's heart plummeted.

Jean winked and waved to the gangster she'd spent the night with and then extended her leg up high behind her by way of flirtation but under pretence of stretching. Itchy leered back at her then nudged Flattop and they paused to watch the girls begin to copy the steps Lightfoot was showing them. Jean smiled and threw herself into the dance, putting her best foot forward - as well as thrusting our her bosom and rear end.

Ella, who had been moved to the front row two weeks prior, grew uncomfortable as Flattop's eyes came to rest on her. He gazed at her collectedly, his expression giving nothing away, eyes half-lidded as usual - but following her every step and move. She began to grow flustered and fell out of step.

"This ain't a sideshow two-step, Miss Priss, this is a Revue," Lightfoot bellowed at her from front of stage. "Get with the program!"

She struggled to get back in time and saw Flattop smile, legs astride and hands in his pockets.

Suddenly, she felt herself grow annoyed. It was such a petty cruelty to intimidate her like this - to find it amusing when she stumbled - to give her two hundred darned dollars and then leave her hanging in limbo, not knowing what to expect further.

_"The heck with him"_, she thought crossly and deliberately fixed her gaze to the back of the club, far above his head, blotting him out of her line of sight. She blocked him from her mind, focused on the dance and immediately mastered the steps. Six weeks and she was quickly adjusting to the dance style, able to embellish with flair and personality now that the moves came easier. She threw herself into the new routine with extra oomph and to boot, began to anticipate and rapidly mark the following steps that Lightfoot showed them.

When they finished the first complete run through, Lightfoot shouted for a five minute break and the girls tripped off the stage to retrieve cigarettes and drinks. Jean bounced off the stage to canoodle with Itchy and Ella puffed out, pleased with herself, not even glancing Flattop's way as she turned to leave the stage.

"Miss Priss!" Lightfoot called out from the piano where he'd gone to discuss the arrangement with 88. Ella turned to look at him, momentarily perplexed. "Dance like that all the time and you'll have your own show soon enough," he glanced over to her with a grin. "Ya did good, kid."

It was Ella's turn, finally, to smirk and she strutted off the stage, flicking hair away from her damp neck, not once looking back.

When she returned from her break, eager to start again, the gangsters had gone.


	9. Chapter 8

**EIGHT**

Her streak of vigour lasted well into the night and all through the following week and she knew she was performing exceptionally. She put the gangsters - one in particular - out of her thoughts and allowed herself to do nothing but work. When she performed, she looked beyond the mobsters' tables to the far wall and did not linger at the club inbetween rehearsals and performances. Instead of seeing gangster movies and gossiping with Jean and Dolores over coffee and sandwiches, she bought two new pairs of shoes, a nice black pair for day and a gold pair with t-bar straps for evening, as well as several dress patterns and materials to make them in. Mrs. Brooks had offered to teach her and it was cheaper to make her own dresses than buy them - whilst she now had no real cause to worry about money, she was compelled to be cautious, if only because of the circumstances she witnessed others living in and the all too keen awareness of how readily fortunes could change.

She practiced doing her hair in the more complicated styles that were popular with Jean to help, and carefully steered the conversation away from anything pertaining to organised crime. She became enamoured of the new routines and practiced them endlessly in her small room, her new tap shoes - one of the first investments she'd made with her first paycheck - clacking cheerily on the floor boards revealed when she pushed the rug against the wall.

The girls at work noted she was becoming bolder in temperament and they became friendlier in response. Whilst she still could not quite bring herself to engage in their ribaldry, she did not get so shy around it anymore.

Her spirits thus buoyed, she allowed herself to be talked into going to the bar with Jean again one evening, wanting the chance to once more show off the green silk gown - the biggest problem with a night job was there was no time for socialising and in considerably better spirits than she'd been for eight months or more, Ella wanted what any young woman would - to enjoy herself. She thought she'd earned it.

Champagne in hand, she was allowing herself to be clumsily chatted up by a slightly awkward but good-looking young man who had what looked like a diamond stick-pin in his cravat. Although she was not interested in the man - whom she was more inclined to pity - she was enjoying the attention - in her time of unemployment she had been too depressed to concern herself with dating and her glum disposition seemed to turn the men away anyway - when Flattop and Itchy once again approached. A single glance from Flattop in the young man's direction and he was making his fumbling excuses, glancing back at Ella in a longing way.

Disturbed and provoked she did not look at the men as they greeted Jean, just sipped from her glass, a prickling discomfort growing within her.

"Well, hiya Ella," Flattop said, stepping into her space, forcing her to look toward him or be obviously rude. She hated the way the gangsters would use her first name without asking if they might first, but what was she supposed to say? The slyly emphatic way Flattop spoke it seemed to suggest he was making a point with the intimacy as well.

"Good evening, Mr. Jones," she said formally and the hint of a smile crossed his features.

"Yeah hiya doll," Itchy weaselled. "Say, your landlady musta really been crook - ain't seen ya out here for awhile."

She'd forgotten the lie she'd told them almost two weeks ago then and started a little.

"Yeah, how is the old broad?" Flattop queried, pushing his hands into his pockets and rocking back on his heels.

Mrs. Brooks would be horrified to hear herself referred to as a _broad_. "Much better, thank you," Ella said nervously and Flattop continued to stare at her and she knew he knew she had been lying. He seemed unconcerned by it though - merely amused.

"Girls, we're off to the Villa Venice again tonight and we want you to join us," Itchy was informing them, scratching idly at his neck. Ella squirmed on her stool in discomfort, then Jean surprisingly spoke up for her:

"Oh, I'm in but Ella should probably get home to her landlady - she ain't quite out of the woods yet and it's been getting pretty brisk at night - "

Ella's heart swelled with gratitude to Jean - she hadn't expected such understanding from her friend who found it difficult to comprehend why anyone would knock back being taken out to swank joints, all expenses paid for.

But before Ella could agree, Flattop spoke up.

"Naw, Ella just said she was doin' much better. Besides - " and he flickered his gaze to Ella, a calculated glint in his eye. " - she owes me a favour."

Dread sunk in Ella's stomach like a stone and her throat grew dry. So this was it. He was finally calling to collect on his two hudred dollars. Ella knew there was no way out.

She forced a smile. "Of course. I'd be very happy to come out." And Flattop smiled.

She struggled to breathe as the small group moved to the front of the club, Flattop taking the natural lead, the crowd parting readily for them as they moved through. At the door he helped her into her coat and whilst she worried he would be too liberal with his hands, he simply tugged the collar up over her shoulders, then tapped one to usher her through the door, barely looking at her as he did so.

He opened the car door for her and Jean before climbing into the driver's seat, Itchy taking the passenger, scratching feverishly at his side as they pulled away from the curb. In the dark back seat of the car, Jean squeezed her knee and winked when Ella glanced her way. She could see her friend was thrilled at what she no doubt perceived as Ella's 'loosening up'. She managed a tight smile back and huddled deeper into her velvet coat, feeling sick with anxiety, her stomach churning and her throat tight.

The two men talked easily together, ignoring the women as the stylish red car made its way through the dark streets of Chicago. They seemed an odd pair to Ella, with Itchy's sniggering voice and nervous attitude a dramatic conflict to Flattop's drawl and collected manner, but they got along easily enough, discussing bets made at the tracks and whether Lacy's on 58th was better for tailored suits than Marios on 28th and Crescent. Jean was undisturbed by their lack of attention and chatted away cheerily to Ella about what she'd the read the stars were doing in Hollywood.

The Villa Venice was in an opulent art-deco building taking up a half-block on the other side of the bridge. Flattop parked the car and then opened the door for Ella, offering her his hand. Silently, she took it and felt the strength in his arm as she pushed herself up out of the car with no other support. Their eyes met briefly as he steadied her on the pavement and she did not like what she saw in the depth of his. She hated that he was so in control of the entire situation but all she could think was that she had to get through this night and hope to God nothing that came about was too unbearable. She imagined it was going to end in the typical way and if that were the worst that would happen, she'd consider herself lucky.

Inside, the Villa Venice was an incredible sight: white and gold bricks moulded to resemble the arched riverways of the fabled Italian city, hung with brilliant crystal chandeliers that reflected off the shimmering walls, the whole of it dazzling the eye. The carpet was a deep royal blue to resemble the sea, a plush pile that Ella's heels sunk into as Flattop guided her inside by the elbow. Ella could not help but be impressed, swivelling her head around and around to behold the lavish settings, somewhat thrilled to be there though she felt her dress was not near fancy enough. The club was lively and hot, a distinct change from the late-autumnal winds outside and Ella found herself overwhelmed, swaying a little on her heels to manage the blast of warm air, the deep pile of the carpeting and the sparkling decor.

In short order they were divested of their coats and escorted to a table by the catwalk of a grand stage, the din of the crowd around them making conversation impossible. The waiters brought them chilled Bollinger champagne without delay and Jean cheered and clapped as the cork was popped and Itchy snickered and put an arm close about her waist, leaning in to nuzzle her neck. Ella felt uneasy watching the canoodling, all too aware of Flattop's close presence besides her as the composed gangster clipped the end off a cigar and lit it, pulling and puffing on the stogie, fearful she would have to endure similar attentions.

The club was entirely full of the rich and glamorous, women dripping in diamonds and furs, the men in immaculate tuxedos, jewels winking at their cufflinks and necks. The Depression had clearly had no impact here and all around was merry and unconcerned. Ella, in a painful contradiction to her current situation, was at the least relieved she had people to sit with who seemed so at home and so minimise what she felt must be her obvious displacement there.

"What time does the show start?" Jean called out over the din to Flattop's raised brows and Ella picked up her champagne glass for a sip, her palette thrilled by the quality alcohol.

"Midnight," Flattop replied, exhaling a mouthful of smoke and somehow making himself heard without raising his voice.

Jean nudged Ella playfully, her genuine excitement at being in the swank establishment all too evident in her pink cheeks and bright eyes. "The Revues here are in the Parisian style," she announced. "They're somethin' to see!"

Ella twirled the stem of her glass in her fingers. "What's the Parisian style?" she asked. Flattop and Itchy caught each other's eye across the table and both began to laugh, Itchy in his customary giggle and Flattop in an unpleasant low snigger. Jean snorted:

"Ain't she a pip?" she squealed.

Ella sat back and took a sip from her glass. There seemed to be no end to her petty embarrassments these days. She glanced sideways to another table and noted the woman there also wearing long white gloves - except hers had a sheen upon them that spoke of silk or satin and Ella's were plain cotton. She noted that Flattop was filling her glass up again and worried but picked it up anyway to take another gulp. So far the gangster had asked her no questions or even addressed her - had not even touched her again except to help her out of her coat. A couple of people passed by the table and murmured greetings as they passed, Flattop and Itchy nodding, shaking hands and occasionally engaging in short pleasantries while Jean chattered away at Ella, who strained to even hear what her friend was saying. She was beginning to feel nothing short of an accessory for all the attention that was being paid her and she was ever more convinced the repayment she would be making would take place at the end of the night.

When the lights dimmed, the noisy crowd quieted to a murmur and Itchy and Flattop shifted in their seats to face the stage. The conductor counted in the band and a lively tune began as the shot-gold curtain were drawn back.

Parading out onto the stage in two long lines, red lips flashing unfaltering smiles at the crowd, were a dozen showgirls - garbed in elaborate ostrich-feather head dresses and tails, spangled g-strings - and nothing else.

Ella gripped her glass tight in horror as the near-to-nude beauties strutted, their high, bare breasts jiggling a little with each step. Applause rippled across the crowd and darting her gaze about she saw dozens of smiling and cultured faces, male and female both, greeting the show with unperturbed airs. Turning her face away she saw that Jean beside her was smiling while she watched, exchanging eager words with Itchy and pointing towards a couple of the showgirls as they formed a kick line, as though to point out the poised accomplishment of their form like there was nothing strange in their nakedness at all.

Turning her face around the other way she saw immediately that Flattop's attention was riveted curiously upon her, cigar in his gloved hands and smiling quietly. Ellla realised that he'd been waiting to see her reaction and felt a deep twist of nausea in her belly.

Her gaze shot to the stage again as the showgirls preened and paced in formation, smiling brightly out to the crowd with alternatively cheeky and sultry demeanours before reaching behind them to unhook their lavishly feathered tails, arcing in two wide intersecting circles to discard the costume pieces, revealing toned and taut buttocks to renewed applause.

There was a stinging behind her eyes as she pushed back the gold and white chair she sat upon, Jean turning to her with a confused look of concern.

"Just have to visit the powder room," she explained hastily, tugging away from her friend's hand and darting out into the club, winding her way around tables and chairs towards the furthest corridors where the bathrooms were.

Once she was within them, she locked herself into a cubicle and burst into quiet tears, drawing in deep, careful breaths so that the attendant would not hear her distress. She sat down upon the commode, feeling foolish in her green silk, and hugged her knees up close to her chest, hating the wretched position she'd found herself in. She ached to be back home in California, asleep in her own cramped room shared with two sisters, rising early to help her mother with breakfast before leaving the house to work. She wished that she and Harry had worked out and she was married right then and the Stock Market crash had never happened and she'd never seen the inside of the Villa Venice.

After a short while, her silent sobs subsided and she pressed tissue to her face to blot the tears away before stepping out and accepted a washcloth from the attendant, carefully checking her makeup in the illuminated mirrors. Her eyes were bloodshot, but that could not be helped, just as her situation could not. She'd accepted the money and there was no skipping out - just as there was no ditching the job or the unspoken responsibilities that came with it.

After powdering her cheeks and touching up her lipstick, she decided she could attribute her bloodshot gaze to an overindulgence of champagne and entered the club once more.

Flattop was waiting for her.

She started and her heart began pounding, but he simply took her by the elbow and led her away from the stage, deep into the heart of a club where a bar lurked in a quiet nook.

He settled her on a stool and she jolted as the smooth leather of his glove made contact with the senitive bare skin of her lower back, his fingers lingering there for a second or two, intensifying her nervousness. He rapped the bar and requested a gin and seltzer before turning back to her. Left alone with him for the first time, Ella became aware of how tall he was - even perched on the high barstool she had to look up into his face and did so with no small amount of trepidation.

He looked back at her for a long, measured moment, handed her the drink the bartender delivered, then leaned on the bar.

"Got a hold of yourself, kid?" he queried dispassionately and she sucked hastily on the straw, confused further by his consideration.

"I'm fine," she managed. "Thank you."

He smiled a little, pulled a cigarette case from inside his tuxedo jacket and offered it to her. "How old are you, sugar?"

Rude questions were nothing to the mob. Ella was almost used to it.

"I was twenty in June," she replied, refusing the cigarettes. She found she could not look at him directly, her eyes kept darting to his face and away again, no doubt an obvious tell of her nervousness.

He fixed her with his customary stare, tilting his head and looking at her from beneath lowered lids.

"That's a real fresh twenty for this day and age. Or maybe I'm just movin' in the wrong circles," a glint of humour in his eyes on those words. "Married?"

She hesitated, then shook her head, deciding not to explain about Harry.

He half-grinned. "Now that's strange. Thought for sure a cute little twist like you would be scooped up quick."

She squirmed beneath the compliment and unconsciously raised a hand to her chest, covering her decolletage.

"I almost was," she was forced to speak. "But it didn't work out."

He nodded briefly. "You finish school?"

She nodded, wondering where this was all leading.

"You come from a good family then. Explains a lot. They know what you're doin'?"

She didn't want to answer any questions about her family but somewhere inside her, her mind was rationalising that this was all part of her debt repayment. If she could tolerate his interrogation, she was partway to being square with him.

"No," she took a sip from the sour drink and looked out to the crowd. "They're in California. We've all been affected by the Depression. Not that we were that well-off to begin with." She knew most of the mobsters despised the upper classes, being 'self-made men' themelves and felt a need to clarify she was not from them.

Flattop tapped a cigarette on the bar, some dark amusement on his face.

"What would they say if they knew where you'd been tonight?"

She felt a wave of helpless irritation. What did he _think_ they would say? "They'd be horrified, of course," she said, the hint of a sulk darkening her voice.

Cockily he stuck the cigarette between his teeth and lit it. "Those tomatoes get a hundred bucks a week. Plus tips," he inhaled then blew the smoke out in a long stream. "Your daddy too proud to back a daughter who can bring home that kinda dough?"

She was angered by the questions regarding her father, her expression stiffening. "He would only be concerned for me," she defended him.

He scoffed. "Naw, he'd be concerned for himself and what the neighbours would say. Some mugs would rather starve than slum it. But there ain't no dignity in dying broke and beggin'."

She shrugged, finding the conversation uncomfortable. "Well, I made my choice," and thought she sounded surprisingly defensive.

He cocked an eyebrow. "Yeah, you did, doll. That's the stuff that separates the survivors from the losers. Them dames out there are survivors, same as you, prissy act or not."

Ella didn't reply, just sipped on her drink. He ran his eyes over her, gaze analytical, then took another long draw on his cigarette.

"The way I see it, it's all supply and demand. And if there ain't no demand, then there'd be no product. Can't go blamin' those who who anwer the call."

She set her glass down firmly on the bar and forced herself to raise her eyes to his, their hazel colour dark in that dim corner of the club.

"Is that how you feel about your work?"

A mean smile spread up his sinister face and he chuckled low, stubbing his cigarette out in the glass ashtray provided on the bar.

"Come on kid, I'll drive you home."


	10. Chapter 9

**NINE**

Ella's mind was in a whirl as the sleek red car drove through the nighttime streets of Chicago. Flattop didn't speak to her and she was not inclined to conversation, huddling in the passenger seat. She was confounded by the conversation at the Villa Venice, not really sure what Flattop's agenda had been in his brutish philosophising. But as the car sped over the bridge and towards the street where she lived with Mrs. Brooks, she began to fear what was to come and to wonder if his point had been simply that what they were about to do was merely an act of survival for her - a subtle jab to 'get over it', as it were.

She tried not to think about what was to come, her stomach twisting in knots and her heart thudding painfully as they turned into her street and he found a parking spot. He switched the engine off but left the radio on and then sat there calmly while the hit song '_Body and Soul'_ played over the waves, crooned by Billie Holiday. Ella was suddenly horrified he expected things to take place in the vehicle and although she had quailed at the thought of taking him into her tiny and shabby apartment, her own private space and letting him have his way with her while the sweet Mrs. Brooks slept in the apartment next to her, she was desperate to do whatever had to be done to avoid the sordidness of the vehicle.

The tension grew as they sat there in silence, Ella's chest constricting tighter as she waited breathlessly for him to make his move.

The music ended and abruptly Flattop switched off the car, pulling the key from the lock and opening his door. "I love that song," he muttered as he got out of the car and Ella stared after him in astonishment before a sensation of foolishness washed over her.

He came around to her side and opened the door for her, extending his hand to assist. She nodded to him in thanks and wrapped her velvet coat tighter around her as she walked towards the steps leading up to her front door.

He followed her to the bottom of the steps then stopped and rocked back on his heels and looked up at the crumbling edifice, an old brownstone that had seen its glory days a long while ago. His lips twitched in distaste. "What a dump," he remarked frankly and Ella, provoked in embarrassment, turned to him on the step and said, rather desperately:

"Listen, just tell me now: after this, we'll be square, right? This is all you expect? I just gotta know how this works." Her eyes prickled a little and she prayed desperately he could not see the intensity of her distress.

He looked up at her coolly and the corner of his mouth twitched upwards in a sneer. "Lightfoot said you asked what the wages were before you screwed him," Ella felt her guts tip upwards, her skin rushing cold. "That was smart. Got a head for business underneath all that quakin' and blushin'."

Tears blurred her gaze but she didn't look away, determined to salvage some of her dignity. He chuckled and stepped up to her, patting her twice lightly on the cheek.

"You don't owe me nothin', kid. Just looked like you needed a great night out."

He turned away and walked down the steps without looking back. As he got to the car, she saw him shake his head and his shoulders shook a little. She rushed up the rest of the steps and fumbled to get the key in the lock, finally yanking the door open and slamming it behind her before breaking down.

Ella cried for a long time that night up in her room, sitting in the dark and gazing out her window at the city beyond. Tears ran down her neck and dribbled beneath the silk of her glamorous green dress which she did not bother to remove. She got out Mrs. Brooks' brandy and poured herself a liberal amount, sipping it steadily as she agonised over her various humiliations, each glaring memory incurring a fresh wave of tears.

But eventually the glass was empty and she was all cried out.

She then found herself reflecting on her circumstances rather dispassionately. Somewhat surprisingly, she started to concede that whilst she could torture herself for as long as she wanted worrying about who in the Club Ritz knew about her fleeting tryst with Lightfoot, it would not do her any good or change in the least what had happened.

Instead, she reckoned she had two choices.

The first was to go back home to California. She had money enough for a ticket plus savings besides. Her parents would be glad to see her back and she could help support them with her assistance around their home and in whatever work she could find. It would mean saying goodbye to her independence and to the stage, but it would also mean escaping from a world to which she simply didn't belong - and the people in it that seemed determined to ridicule her.

The other was to stay.

And with her newfound coolness, she began to appreciate certain facts about her situation that she had been disregarding.

The first, of course, was the fact that her job was extremely well paying. Since she had begun at the Club Ritz she had accustomed herself to the perspective that the money was practically compensation for what she had to do to get it - that she had made enormous sacrifices simply to survive.

But twenty-five dollars a week was not surviving. And then there were the tips. Left anxious after her extended period of near-destitution, she was loathe to be careless with her cash and had amassed a reasonable cache of savings. No longer did she have to carefully scrimp and save just to have a decent amount of good food. She was not spending extravagantly but in terms of the bare necessities, she was more than able to have what she liked and then some - as well as treat Mrs. Brooks to share. Without being hard up afterwards.

Ella realised that, while she was still living poor it was because she was choosing to do so - not because she had to. And that placed her in a dramatically different situation to the greater population. It was something to be grateful for.

Secondly, she knew for herself that the girls she worked with were quite liberal in attitude and behaviour. Hanky panky was not scandalous backstage at the Club Ritz - it was simply the way things were for the young and free. The girls were more likely to disdain the chaste and sober than to respect them, to look upon girls who slavishly obeyed the conventions of proprietary as uptight and ridiculous than ladies to be emulated. So why was she so sure she would be judged for her arrangement with Lightfoot anyway? Chances were, she wasn't the only girl in the chorus who had struck the same deal. It wasn't that the girls simply gave it away or didn't have their own code of ethics - they just felt that certain dictates - that women be modest and chaste - were horribly old-fashioned. Most of them were older than Ella by a few years and had spent their teens and early twenties in the roaring twenties - when far more liberal attitudes for women were very much _en vogue_. Ella recalled her mother saying how glad she was that the stock market crash had seen a return to much the way things were when she had been a girl. But the chorus of the Club Ritz were loathe to give their liberation up.

Liberation - and that was the third thing. Beyond all the stress and anxiety of coping with the Depression alone, Ella very much liked being independent. She came and went as she pleased and kept her own apartment the way she wanted it. There was no one to whom she had to answer and no one to discourage her from what she wanted to do or with whom she had to compromise - Harry had proven to be dreadfully controlling and would fly into the most pathetic sulks when he didn't get his way.

But as well as that, she had been enjoying a liberation of her spirit. Though she clung to her breeding with blushes and guilt - and though she didn't think she could ever get used to something so shocking as the Revue at the Villa Venice - she could not deny that it was a pleasure to be in company that did not so rigorously limit what she might say or do or look at her strangely or with chastisement if she were too free with her laughter or too flashy in her dress. The girls of the Club Ritz were more like movie stars with their cigarettes and paste jewellery, their fancy hairdos and glamorous dresses and for once there was no one around Ella to disapprove or discourage her. "Show-offs," her mother would snort contemptuously at the gay girls back home, seeing how Ella would look yearningly after them. "Making spectacles of themselves." If Ella's lipstick had been too bright or she had dressed up plain black with a yellow scarf or pink gloves, her mother's lips would set themselves in a thin, sour line and she would whisper irritably in her daughter's ear as they left the house: "we're not going to a fashion parade, you know."

Ella had not missed that at all.

But she thought she would miss the riotous, merry dressing room of the Ritz, where the girls would shave their legs in their garters, mix martinis and talk frankly about their boyfriends, where they disdained black in favour of the brightest jewel-tones and dressed up their hair with silk flowers and rhinestoned barrettes - where spending a night's tips on fancy new shoes and lingerie was celebrated, not scolded. She liked the girls with their lack of affectation, unapologetic in their gayness and willing embrace of all things frivolous and fun. Even the girls with a child or two were determined to live well and worked hard to get their tips.

And the work itself - the Villa Venice had given her context to base a comparison on and she had become accustomed to it besides. What had seemed so daring and cheap a couple of months prior now felt comfortable and really, fairly modest - they never even bared their midriffs on stage. The more she gave herself over to the work, the more she was enjoying it. It was not the soaring euphoria of Ballet, but felt instead like she could dance herself eternally young. To dance at the Club Ritz often felt more like dancing with her friends at a hotspot - a lack of restraint rather than the severe control Ballet demanded.

Life, she abruptly realised, could have been terribly fun these last two months, had she allowed it.

Instead, she had occupied her mind with varying convoluted anxieties, all conspiring to age her well beyond her twenty years - an age when all the world should have been hers for the revelling.

As the clock hands crept towards one thirty am, Ella made her decision: she would stay in Chicago, she would keep on working at the Club Ritz and she would have _fun_.

Finally calm, she rose from the armchair in which she had curled, the broken spring within creaking, changed from her lovely silk gown into her nightie, washed her face and went to bed. Where, for the first time in a long time she slept deeply and without dreaming.

_Hey peeps! I've noticed there's quite a bunch of you out there reading this fic, which makes me happy as I wasn't expecting that at all! Folks who usually read my JokerxHarley stuff: have no fear, I have not abandoned our beloved crazy clowns! This is a revitalising diversion! ;) _

_I'm also very grateful to my one dedicated reviewer - thank you! I would absolutely love to hear from some of the rest of you about whether or not you're enjoying this story or liking the characterisation or any other old thing - so if you would be so kind as to leave a review, I would be deeply appreciative! Thank you!_


	11. Chapter 10

**TEN**

One month later Ella entered the Club Ritz at five pm to get ready for the evening show, arm in arm with Jean and laughing - they had supped late at the Victorian Tea Rooms, electing for champagne over tea and were both very jolly indeed. Ella wore beneath her stylish coat a crimson dress with a scalloped neck and a skirt that flared out at the knee from the form-fitting bias cut and emphasised the wiggle in her walk aided by the royal blue high-heeled shoes she had on. Gloves in a matching shade of blue were on her hands and nestled over her hair was a blue cloche decorated with red flowers. She'd had her hair cut to her shoulders which gave additional bounce to her copper locks and made it easier to style in the popular fashions and it shone beneath the raised lights of the club. Jean was similarly radiant in the canary yellow she so favoured, accessorised in bold red and the two had been enjoying the admiring stares of several men they had passed on the street.

A small cluster of mobsters were in the club when the girls swept in, having clearly just finished a business meeting upstairs and loitering over informal - if slightly strained - conversation. Their heads all swivelled when Ella and Jean entered, the customary wariness relaxing into appreciative grins and smirks. Several tipped their hats and Ella saw that Flattop was amongst them, unflappable as always, simply glancing their way coolly. Feeling particularly bold, Ella unfastened her coat without hesitating as they strutted toward the dressing room, shrugging it off her shoulders in a natural fashion but knowing the sudden reveal of her bright dress would be provocative to the men. Ella could feel all eyes on them as she folded the coat over her arm as Jean also started to remove hers and as they rounded the corner to the corridor and out of sight, they both broke into a run to get into the dressing room before they burst out laughing.

"That woulda made their day," Jean said when they'd calmed down, the only girls there yet. "They're so used to seeing tits and ass, a little tease is bound to be more interestin'. Very smooth, Miss Priss."

Jean's dress strained over her hips and her breasts seemed ready to burst her seams as she wiggled about the dressing room, pulling her costume from the rack. The weight gain was becoming more noticeable and Ella wondered about it - Jean worked as hard and often as any of them and minded her diet, her primary indulgences only champagne and martinis and the occasional tearoom cake. She didn't want to say anything and make her friend feel uncomfortable so instead she simply set about removing her gloves and unpinning her hat.

"Wearing that new dress tonight, I hope?" Jean said and Ella flushed with pleasure to think of it.

"You better believe it," she said standing up, unzipping her dress and wiggling out of it. "I hope we end up at the Villa afterwards - this dress needs a grand debut."

Ella had started agreeing to accompany her friends on dates out with the mobsters. In order not to step on any toes and so see a return to the anxious state she had determined to left behind, she was careful to only socialise in the club the evenings she wished to go out, maybe once or twice a week. She also took care to not be overly-friendly and ended the evenings early. She knew that a couple of the gangsters were keen to take things further, if only because she posed the challenge - but she and Jean had worked out a system in which Jean would play up Ella's naivety and inexperience, explaining in Ella's absence about her shyness and need for a gentle touch. The older men, in particular, responded well to this concept, engaging in conduct of such exaggerated chivalry it bordered on parody. Because she went out so infrequently, nothing had progressed to a point with any of them where they might feel entitled to press things further.

Flattop, however, had not approached her again, instead seeming to have taken a shine to Babs, a tiny brunette with Bette Davis' eyes and Mae West's lips who perpetually chewed gum. Despite herself, Ella found she continued to ponder the unflappable crook with curiosity. In the days that followed that awful evening out at the Villa Venice she had reflected and sorted through her myriad emotions and had come reluctantly to concede that her distress had been as much caused by hurt pride as anything else. Her confidence had taken a blow to be so brusquely knocked back and she enjoyed the bolstering it had been given by the attention of his peers. She couldn't deny that she had hoped her newfound gaity and eye-catching clothes might catch his eye - if only so he might realise what he was missing. She hated feeling that way about the situation - it was so petty and desperate - but like any other young girl she wanted to feel desirable and did not like to feel that she apparantly was not.

But Flattop remained impervious and Ella bristled inwardly and cursed him for it whilst wearing ever more glamorous gowns and flirting with greater boldness.

There was a knock on the dressing room door and Ella hastily tied a gown around her as Jean went to open it. The club's doorman stood there, concealed from the waist up by dozens of heavily-scented red roses in a golden vase.

"For Miss Ella Daniels," the doorman shouted around the curtain of flowers.

Ella stood, her jaw slightly agape and went forward wonderingly. "Who are they from?" she queried.

"There's a card with them, Miss, here let me carry them in, they're kinda heavy," the doorman brought them in and placed them on Ella's dressing table as she hastily pushed her makeup and hat out of the way. The doorman tipped his hat to them and then left as Jean darted forward excitedly.

"Come on then, don't keep us waiting - who're they from?"

Ella rifled through the blooms carefully and located the rose-coloured card then wrinkled her nose as she read the fine script.

"Freddy Washington," she said, the note of dismay in her voice clear and Jean snorted.

Freddy Washington was the young man who had been chatting Ella up the night Flattop and Itchy had approached them, that night they had gone to the Villa Venice for the first time. A nervous and awkward fellow, he came from a very wealthy family and was therefore idle rich. An only child with an experienced board running his family business, he had no need to work and no interest in it either. He was a constant presence at the Club Ritz, spending most of his nights there gambling heavily. For all his shyness, he nonetheless possessed a healthy sense of entitlement and would frequently throw childish tantrums when he lost at the tables - tantrums that were all the more marked for being so ineffectual and unthreatening. He was often sent home like a child being sent to their room, but since he was a VIP member and free with his spendings, he was also continuously permitted to come back. The gangsters disregarded him entirely though he clearly thought he was living very recklessly rubbing elbows with them and Ella had overheard him attempting to impress other club patrons by chatting about how he was the greatest of chums with Big Boy, Pruneface, Flattop and B.B. Eyes, amongst others. Quite regularly he sought approval and adulation by purchasing champagne for the entire club, blushing and waving magnanimously when the patrons applauded in response to the bartender's announcement, basking in that moment as though it were real love.

Altogether he was a rather sad little person - and he'd taken a shine to Ella, persuing her about the club when he wasn't gambling, paying her ridiculous compliments and attempting to emulate the natural charm and charisma of a popular theatrical actor who was also a club regular. Last week he'd presented her with an orchid corsage, bragging about how it had come from a hothouse as the late Autumn weather was the wrong climate for them, as though Ella knew nothing about flowers. Even on the note he'd slipped in with the roses, he'd added: "ps: had to import these from Florida, there's not a rose left in all of Illinois right now!"

"Well," Jean said thoughtfully as they looked over the roses, each velvety petal scalloped perfection. "He _is_ very wealthy. There's nothing so awful in landing a rich husband."

Ella sniffed. "I'm a chorus girl from the middle classes. I doubt it would ever come to that. And even if it did - I'm not convinced he'd stay rich either. If he doesn't gamble his fortune away then his daddy will switch the tap off. Where would I be then? Stuck with an annoying twit of a husband who doesn't know how to work. Y'know what he said to me last week, trying to impress? He said 'Father is such a horrible bore, telling me I have to stop spending so much. But I'm a man now and won't be told what to do! I'll spend as I like, so there Papa!" she mimicked Freddy's petulant upper-crust accent and Jean giggled. "Can you believe he's thirty? He talks like my ten year old cousin. "

"All the macho and none of the balls. He thinks you're playing hard to get, I bet," Jean said, sitting down to begin applying her makeup. "After you knocked him back last week. Bet he thinks you're a spirited filly who just needs to be tamed," Jean burst out laughing and Ella scowled at her.

"Don't laugh - he's going to be here tonight and wanting to know if I liked the flowers," she moaned, but Jean only laughed harder.


	12. Chapter 11

**ELEVEN**

Ella's entrance that night was grand. She had learned how to enter a room with confident, thrown back shoulders and upheld chin, smiling brightly as though greeting the entire room and it was effective - while the room did not come to a standstill, as it would in a movie, many heads would turn to get a look at her and smile and nod.

She had taken extra care in getting changed that evening and so made her entrance alone, Jean having gone ahead of her. "My cheeks are itching for a kiss that only one man's lips can scratch!" she had swooned to Ella's groans. Jean was getting giddier and giddier over the blonde, bespectacled, perpetually scratching mobster and Ella thought it hopeless. But her thoughts were quickly distracted by her new gown and by the plan she intended to carry out whilst in it and she continued to get ready.

As she had swept through the club in the dazzling new dress, a nearby table of distinguished gentlemen actually gave her a smattering of applause, making her colour with pride and pleasure.

In shimmering white silk taffeta shot through with gold, the dress was sleeveless, leaving her shoulders and decolletage entirely bare. Bias cut over her torso, it spilled out into a full train mid-thigh. The sweetheart neckline was embellished with pearly beads and rhinestones matched at the yoke and they caught the light and twinkled, as did the gold thread running throughout the material. She had pincurled her hair the night before and brushed it out into a sausage roll that framed her face softly. Her gold t-bar high heels were on her feet and she wore no gloves but heavily powdered her arms and decolletage so she would appear stark and flawless in the dim light of the club. The way the material clung to her body and shifted as she walked made her feel sensual and glamorous and she did not doubt she was a sight to behold.

She paused near the stage and looked about the room, seeking out a particular person and finding him by the bar and fortunately, for her intentions, alone.

Drawing in a deep breath, she set her chin and floated across the room towards Flattop who faced the club with both elbows on the bar, thoughtfully surveying the cheery crowd at the Ritz. He became aware of her approach when she was still a few steps from him and fixed his cold hazel eyes on her, the only reaction to her elegant glamour the slightest tilting back of his head.

"Ella," he greeted her in a slightly amused voice, remaining in his casual slouch. "Been drinkin' your milk, I see."

It was clearly the best compliment he was going to give her and she decided to disregard it.

"Good evening, Mr. Jones," she said formally. "I've been meaning to speak to you for a couple of weeks now."

To that he cocked an eyebrow, but said nothing and Ella opened her silver clutch and withdrew four fifty dollar notes. She looked back at the mobster to see that something curious had started to glimmer in his eye.

"I wanted to say thank you for being so kind and giving me a loan when I was in such need. I'm sorry it's taken so long for me to pay you back but well - here you are." She held the folded notes out in front of her, keeping her face still to mask the nervousness she was feeling, despite how carefully she'd rehearsed the interaction at home.

Flattop continued to stare at her, his expression not changing apart from a hardening of the eyes. Her heart began to pound but she forced herself to hold his gaze. It was only that week she had finally had enough put aside to return the two hundred dollars that had hung over her head so long and as it coincided with her new dress, she determined to win back the power she had lost, ensuring there was nothing that could be held over her.

After a very long moment during which Ella did not look away although she knew her eyes were growing wider and threatening to betray her, his upper lip flickered in a sneer and he looked away.

"I told ya, kid, it was a tip," he said, an edge of roughness betraying his own irritation.

For a moment she was tempted to drop the money to the carpet, as he had done to her, but the most disturbing thing about Flattop was he never seemed to lose his temper - which made her frightened of what he would be like if he did. She was provoking him enough in returning the money and so she simply placed the small bundle of bills on the bar next to his elbow, turned and walked away without looking back to see what he might do. If he wanted to leave them on the bar for whoever to find, then let him - she had made her point.

Freddy bailed her up on her way to find Jean, beaming at her goofishly in what he no doubt thought was a charmingly boyish way.

"Ella bella!" he exclaimed delightedly, taking hold of one of her hands and kissing it hard. "You are so radiant tonight, an absolute vision."

"Thank you, Freddy," Ella replied akwardly. "And thank you for the flowers too, they're very lovely." She still had manners after all, though she knew it would only encourage him.

Freddy's grin widened delightedly, his complexion already ruddy from alcohol consumption. "Oh you got them, I'm so pleased. My secretary said it was a terrible chore to track them down but of course I wanted to ensure you got only the best."

Ella may not have been raised in the upper classes, but she knew this was gauche.

"Thank you for going to the trouble," she said stiffly, looking about her for an escape as Freddy pressed further into her space. Across the room then she saw Flattop, who had moved from the bar and was standing with a couple of his peers, watching them, a faint smile on his mouth. Irritated, she looked back at Freddy who was trying to coax her into a drink, "as a thank you, for the flowers."

She was vexed by the manipulation - she hadn't asked for the flowers after all. "Just let me find Jean, I have to give her back her lipstick, wait for me at the bar won't you?" she said desperately and pulled away the hand that Freddy still clung to, dashing off.

She found Jean and Itchy in a dark corner of the club, Jean's hand inside Itchy's tuxedo jacket and his arm low around her waist, giggling together. Her appearance stole Itchy's leering attention from Jean for a moment but she pretended not to notice and flung herself onto a chair at the table.

"Save me, won't you?" she implored. "The fool won't leave me alone!"

Jean and Itchy tittered together at her predicament and then there was another person at the table.

"Hbahbahba," the indecipherable voice was unmistakably admiring. "Nwhrsnerpetmato!"

Ella looked up to see the long, pale face with its overly large nose and distinctive twisted lips of Mumbles, one of Big Boy's key flunkies - the one who copped the most abuse and the least respect. Of all of the mobsters she had encountered since beginning work at the Club Ritz, Mumbles seemed genuinely to be the nicest and most harmless and it was difficult to remember he was as crooked as the rest of them.

"Here we go," Jean explained. "Mumbles will look after you!"

"Wtsalthsbothn?" It was the question in Mumbles' voice that gave them some indication of what he was saying rather than any ability to decipher his words.

"Ella's being persued by that awful Freddy Washington," Jean explained fervently, clearly loving the drama. "And we need you to stand in as her date tonight so she can get away from him. Say you will, won't you Mumbles please!" She batted her eyelashes and Ella swivelled around to smile pleadingly up him as Itchy took the cigar from his mouth and giggled.

Mumbles put a hand on his chest and made a small bow, his pale yellow hair looking almost white in the dark club. "Wldbenhnr, mdm," and seated himself at the table while Ella had a small giggle to herself at the thought of a villain playing the role of hero. Ella knew the cowardly Freddy would not dare approach while the gangsters were present, for all his blustering about being tight with them and while she might not be able to understand a word Mumbles said, he was a great deal less obnoxious than some of the others.

But the group's gaity was short-lived. They were just making a move to leave for the Villa Venice when Flattop sauntered up to their table, ignoring the ladies and addressing his fellows.

"Time to step out, boys. Somethin's come up."

Mumbles and Itchy were instantly all business, pushing their chairs back, Itchy stubbing out his cigar and Mumbles straightening his tie, neither with another word to the two ladies though Itchy did suffer himself to pat Jean on the cheek. Jean looked terribly put out and Ella glanced nervously around to see if Freddy was lurking in wait, but they both knew better than to complain, even playfully.

Flattop took a glance at them both sitting there in sulky silence and then reached into his pocket and withdrew a small bundle of notes, tossing them onto the center of the table.

"There you go, kittens, take yourselves out, mm? Be a shame for those pretty dresses to go to waste."

He looked directly at Ella and winked, then grinned and strode away.


	13. Chapter 12

**TWELVE**

Ella did not stay long after the gangsters had departed their company. For one thing she didn't want Freddy to spy them sitting alone and approach, but for another her mood was soured by the last encounter with Flattop. A quick glance confirmed the bills he'd left crumpled on the table were those she'd given to him earlier - but to add insult to injury, he'd added to them with double the amount, leaving a total of four hundred dollars. It was so exaggeratedly aggressive a gesture that Ella was left feeling ill - a pointed reminder that she could simply not match the gangster, not with her wages and tips combined, and that he would do as he pleased.

"Fantastic!" Jean had squealed, pouncing on the money and rifling through it. "See, I told ya he could be cute!"

She proferred half the money to Ella, then gaped when she refused it.

"You have got to be joking, Ella!" Jean said, aghast. "That's two hundred dollars. For nothing! You'd have to be whacky to knock back dough like that. Come on, take it - buy a pretty new dress for him and Freddy to admire you in!"

Reluctantly, Ella had put the money in her purse and then made her excuses although Jean said they should go on to the Villa Venice regardless. Deflated the debut of hew new dress was so anti-climactic, she caught a cab home and went straight to bed where she had a strange and disturbing dream.

She was in the dressing room of the Club Ritz, slowly peeling her pearly white dress off her body when the door behind her opened and Flattop entered, gazing at her with his level stare, eyes slowly roving her lingerie-clad body. Horrified, she wanted to cover herself but was frozen in fear as he walked over to her, pulling up close so that she had to tip her head back to look up at him. Her arms fluttered up to cross over her bosom. He didn't say anything, just looked down at her with a hint of a smile playing about his full lips, his hooded eyes darkly amused and she felt a creeping burn across her bared skin, her insides shrinking at the unbearable sense of vulnerability. She wanted to scream at him to go away but was terrified of what he might do to any affront - if she so much as moved he would do her harm, she was sure of it and so she simply stood there, still as a statue, feeling utterly helpless - her body poised in terrible anticipation.

His gloved hands lifted then to her hair, fingers running through it gently, pulling her red locks away from her head so that her scalp prickled with not-unpleasant sensation. His hands ran down across her cheeks and then her neck, the leather smooth and warm. Gooseflesh ran across her skin and beneath her merry widow, she could feel her nipples peak and shuddered.

Then his hands were running over her breasts in their moulded cups before his fingertips found the hook-and-eye fastenings that ran down the front of her undergarment and began, one by one, to unfasten them, his lips parting just a little in a wolfish smile as she trembled and did not resist.

Ella awoke from the dream in a state of pronounced arousal, the feeling of leather gloves cupping her breasts lingering before the full import of the dream hit and she leapt from her bed with a cry. The point between her thighs was tingling in the way it used to when she and Harry would make-out in the weeks leading up to their love-making, when he still excited her - before she discovered that sex was disappointing and brief. That pleasurable ache had always gone unsatisfied, and it seemed this time would be no different.

Not that she _wanted_ to find out what the little tingling could lead to - not on thoughts of that wretched gangster that had so upended her life.

She switched on all the lights in her apartment and washed her face with water to draw her further into reality, then paced her bedroom agitatedly. What could such a dream mean? She didn't want to think about it. There could simply be no way she was attracted to the brutish gangster - not just because of what he did or his peculiar looks - but because of how dreadfully he'd treated her. It simply couldn't be. Such a thought was horrendous, and very distressing.

When she eventually calmed down, she switched off the lights and crawled back into bed. But when she shut her eyes, she saw those gloved hands on her flesh again and it drove her to distraction. How could she now go into the club and face him again, after such a revealing dream? It was all too much to bear. She could simply be thankful he could not know her thoughts. Clutching her pillow tight she forced herself to go over the steps of her various dance routines, over and over, until she fell asleep.

The next day, Freddy had sent her more roses and a bottle of Bollinger champagne. The girls all roared with laughter and teased her good-naturedly - Freddy was the subject of much ridicule backstage - although Phyllis, a mercenary raven-haired girl, did make the point that wimp or not, Freddy was swimming in it. It gave Ella - who was still trying to put creeping memories of her dream from her head - pause for thought. What might it be like to be married to such a wealthy man? Then she reminded herself that, for all Freddy's bragging, it was his father who controlled the purse-strings and he was unlikely to to permit a union between his son - fourth generation old money - and a chorus girl in a Revue.

She shared the champagne with the girls and they decorated the dressing room with the flowers and after the shows were done she snuck out the back way, desiring to avoid both the amorous Freddy - and the man who had figured in her dreams.

The next evening she was not so lucky. Freddy was waiting for her by the dressing room door after their set, catching her wrist with one hand and pulling her out of the line.

"Ella darling, where have you been? I've been absolutely busting to see you again!"

Flustered, Ella twisted her arm from him. "I'm sorry Freddy, I've just been very busy with the show. Thank you for the champagne."

"Do you want more?" Freddy advanced on her, taking her elbows in either hand, his smile desperately ingratiating. "Ella, I'll have a whole case delivered for you if you like."

"No, that won't be necessary. Freddy, I have to get changed for the next number."

He seemed not to hear her. "I understand about the other night," he said pointedly, stepping towards her so that she was obliged to walk backwards, away from the club room. "No need to apologise - I know you couldn't possibly have refused one of those fellows. I hope it wasn't too dreadful a bore for you."

"What? Oh - " she realised he was speaking of her making off with Mumbles. "Oh yes, I am sorry about that, but I expect you understand they have certain expectations of us here - "

"Of course, of course!" Freddy held up his hands, having backed her into a corner of the corridor. "Your work is very important to you. That's one of the things I admire about you, darling Ella. But as they say, all work and no play makes Jill a dull girl!" He reached into his tuxedo pocket and withdrew two rectangular pieces of stiff paper, holding them out to her. She stared at them for a moment, not comprehending and he explained: "They're tickets for La Traviata - won't you join me darling, please?"

For a moment, she was horribly tempted. She was made uncomfortable by the fact he had manipulated her into a corner and found his persistence terribly annoying but the Opera was a rare treat - truthfully, she'd never been before.

Freddy's grin widened a touch when he saw her desire and she got a hold of herself.

"No, I'm sorry Freddy but I just can't accept. It's very kind of you but I just don't have the time and it's far too generous besides."

An ugly grimace flashed over Freddy's boyish face for a second and she felt very much afraid he was about to throw one of his temper tantrums, but then he forced a smile once more.

"If you say so, dearest - but the harder to get you play, the more determined I become to beat this game!"

Ella stared at him with incredulous distaste and wished she were stronger about saying she was simply not interested.

There came the tread of feet on the staircase by the corridor and a moment later Flattop rounded the corner, dressed for business in his favourite royal blue suit. Ella's heart gave a sudden leap as the sight of him roused a vivid recollection of her dream and she felt her cheeks burn.

"You're not like the other girls here, Ella," Freddy was saying, his back to the gangster who cast them a sardonic look as he passed. Ella's eyes were darting from him to Freddy, who kept her bailed up in the corner, embarrassed to be seen in such a compromising position with such an odious man. "They're all so cheap - loose, really. You have so much class - " he lifted one of his perfectly manicured hands to her hair and began to stroke it and outraged by the improprietary, Ella slapped his hand away.

"Mr Washington, I would think a man of your station would have better manners!"

Freddy laughed and finally backed up as Ella slipped around him, glaring at him crossly.

"I'm sorry, darling, really! See, this is exactly what I mean - can't you see it's irrisitible?"

Infuriated he was treating it all so flippantly, Ella stormed to the dressing room door with Freddy following.

"Ella, don't be like this dearest, come to the Opera with me, I'll be a perfect gentleman, I swear it," he implored her laughingly and she paused at the door with him pressing close towards her, glaring at him with uplifted chin.

"Good evening, Mr. Washington," she said firmly and once again the twist of a sulk darted across Freddy's features.

Then suddenly at Freddy's elbow, Flattop appeared.

Immediately Freddy stopped and took a step back, returning to his usual awkward self.

"Oh - er - " he stammered as Flattop leaned up against the wall and gave him a cool once over.

"Patrons ain't allowed back here," Flattop stated simply and Freddy straightened his lapels nervously.

"Right - well - I'll just be - " Freddy gestured with his hand as Flattop continued to stare unperturbed, a glimmer of sneering amusement on his features, and then Freddy was darting away, back toward the club.

Flattop looked after him for a moment, then turned to Ella who hovered at the door, unsure what to do and trying to avoid his eye, her dream persistently replaying in her head. She was overwhelmed by the gangster's solidly-built presence, noticing details about his figure and carriage she hadn't before and found herself burning to know why he had decided to intervene on her behalf.

"Give a message to Babs for me, huh?" Flattop spoke to her then, his husky drawl sending a shiver down her spine. "Tell her I'll be by the car when she's done - but I don't wanna be kept waitin'. Thanks kid."

And just like that he walked away.


	14. Chapter 13

**THIRTEEN**

Ella was gripped by a confusing wave of anger and envy and pushed open the dressing room door, unzipping her costume as she sat down at her dressing table next to where Jean was mixing herself a martini.

"Make me one, honey, would you?" Ella said irritably and Jean glanced at her in surprise before shrugging and pouring the drinks out.

"Freddy bailed you up?"

"He won't take no for an answer," Ella complained, unpinning her headdress. Jean quirked an eyebrow.

"Maybe he's serious about you," she suggested and Ella scowled at herself in the mirror, taking a generous sip of her drink.

"Seriously a bore," Ella grumbled, savagely rouging her cheeks, then swivelled in her chair and called out Flattop's message to Babs across the room who popped her gum and grinned in reply.

"That Mr. Jones has such an itchy trigger finger," Babs sang out to the room and held out a hand between her hips with her index finger pointed as though it were a gun. "But he never fires too fast!" Babs gyrated her hips lewdly while the other girls shrieked with laughter. Disgruntled, Ella turned back to the mirror while Jean looked at her curiously, her red lips twisting up in a smile.

"Well, well," Jean began teasingly. "I don't think it was Freddy that put you out so much after all. Are you jealous?"

Ella sipped her cocktail again, pouting. "No, of course not."

"Ha! I knew it," Jean was triumphant, tugging her chair closer to Ella's table. "I knew you had a thing for him. But why hasn't anything happened? I thought you two might've hooked up that night at the Villa, you both left so early - but then nothing!"

"I told you," Ella stood, dropping her costume to her ankles and stepping out of it. "I was a little startled by the shows and he took me home."

"Yeah, but I didn't _believe_ you, Ella, I just thought you were still playing that little Miss Prim and Proper act," Jean guffawed and Ella slapped her with her spangled leotard. "No really, why didn't anything come of that night?"

Ella felt the sting of her hurt pride, compounded so many times over by the cold and nonchalant gangster. "He's not interested in me," she said quietly and wiggled into her next costume.

"Pft," Jean snorted and poured a little extra martini into Ella's glass. "I reckon he is. But he's not the sort to go chasing and that hard to get routine don't work on everyone."

"It's not a routine!" Ella cried, stomping her heel on the ground. Jean glanced askance at her and then at the martini glass. "And it's not an act! Don't you see I'm not as bold as you? I don't know how to flirt properly - and I'm not interested in Freddy _or _Flattop."

"Okay, okay," Jean said. "Whatever you say, doll. I'm just surprised you ain't seen the way he looks at you."

Ella stopped pinning in her new headpiece and glanced sharply at Jean. "Who?" she demanded.

Jean smiled tight-lipped and got up from her chair, sashaying towards the door. "Who do you think?" she said enigmatically.

For several nights, Ella did not go out to the club after the shows and snuck out the back way, the bouncer kindly hustling her to a cab. Freddy continued to send flowers and expensive champagne along with ridiculously worded notes of apology in which he couldn't help but effuse over how absolutely charming and ladylike her easily offended sensibilities were, not something one expected to find in a chorus girl. Ella knew he was supposed to be flattering her, but she found it oddly offensive and read the notes out to the other girls who were deeply insulted and took great delight in jeering about the clueless young aristocrat.

Ella's avoiding of Freddy also meant she had not had to encounter Flattop again, which was a relief after the last time had stirred up so many confusing feelings. Occasionally, when she switched off the lights and climbed into bed, fleeting images from her dream - the smooth leather of those gloves in her hair, on her bosom - would stir up to delay her sleep. Though intrigued by Jean's allusions, she did not want to make a fool of herself any further with the unflappable gangster and was glad of the opportunity to avoid him.

One night, along with the champagne and flowers that had become _de rigeur,_ there was also a slim, rectangular shaped black velvet box on her dressing room table. The girls who had already arrived had spied it and were clustered in a group, eagerly awaiting her arrival.

"Open it, open it, Ella!" Dolores squealed and with a thrill of excitement and dread, Ella turned the box over in her hands, found the clasp and popped open the lid.

The girls all exhaled and cried out as one, all of them save for Ella who could only stare in silence at the box's contents.

The diamonds that studded the bracelet were dazzling as fire in the lights that bordered her dresser mirror. Ella wonderingly moved the box back and forth, this way and that, admiring wide-eyed the way the facets sparkled and shone in bright flashes of colour, eliciting delighted shouts from the other girls.

"Real diamonds," Phyllis swooned. "Those are real diamonds, you can tell. Oh put it on and show it off."

Silently, Ella did as requested, feeling quite overwhelmed. The gold was cool and slippery against her skin and the diamonds twinkled brilliantly, the weight of the bracelet marked as she moved her arm. Never before had she seen such magnificent gems so close before.

"What do you reckon, Lorrie?" Phyllis asked Dolores who reached out and grasped hold of Ella's wrist for a closer look.

"Each stone is about a half-carat," Dolores assessed. "Must've cost a fortune."

"Oh Ella," Jean sighed. "What a dazzler - looks like Freddy's serious alright."

Ella felt horribly vexed and confused. She did not want to become entangled with Freddy, but at the same time she very much wanted the beautiful bracelet. She had never owned real diamonds before and had never thought that she would, apart from the tiny chip in the engagement ring Harry had given her - which she'd returned. And looking at the extravagant gift, the visions of Freddy's wealth once again rose shimmering before her eyes and she allowed herself a moment to imagine that his father might permit a marriage, and she could endure the odious man-child and never have to worry ever again about a thing.

"If I keep it, he'll expect me to date him," Ella said miserably and Babs rolled her eyes.

"God, is it really that awful a prospect?"

"It would be if he's just trying to buy his way into her knickers," Jean pointed out defensively.

"And what if he is? At least he's got the simoleons to show her a good time."

"While building her hopes up for something to come of it, only to dump her when he gets bored."

"Well, we all run that risk," Babs sniffed and flounced away. Jean grabbed Ella by the hand.

"You need to get a promise out of him, Ella," Jean said firmly. "Before you go to bed with him. He likes hard to get, so you gotta work it."

"Since when am I going to bed with him?" Ella cried as the girls pressed around her.

"You could sell that," the shrewd Phyllis interjected. "It's a gift, isn't it? You don't have to do anything for a gift. Just take it, sell it and then you've got a small fortune to play with."

"But if I keep it, he'll want to know why I'm not wearing it," Ella said desperately and Phyllis flapped a dismissive hand.

"So what? It's none of his business. I'm telling you, he gave it to you so it's yours to do as you want with. If you don't want to date him, then don't. It's his decision to make a monkey of himself over you."

"Wear it for a night," Dolores suggested. "See how you like it, think it over and then decide. No reason you shouldn't enjoy it for one night though."

Ella looked down at her wrist where the gorgeous diamonds sparkled and felt such a simple longing, the purest feminine desire for the beautiful and rare that had never been so profoundly roused before.

"It is _so_ lovely," she swooned and the girls all sighed with her.

That night Big Boy was in a particularly good mood and spontaneously threw a party for the chorus girls, having platters of fine food and endless bottles of champagne delivered to one long table set up for the girls. He insinuated himself into the middle of it and Ella, who'd had very little to do with him since their first awful encounter, almost forgot to be afraid of him as she watched him dance on top of the table, juggling corks and bellowing with laughter as three of the girls squeezed onto his knee and covered his heavily-featured face with kisses.

"Business has been _very_ good, or so I hear," Jean murmured to Ella. "Itchy's been in a jolly mood too and Babs said when the drains went out on her street last week, Flattop put her up a few nights in a suite at the Ritz Hotel."

Ella again felt an ugly surge of jealousy, which she determined to ignore and looked down to admire her bracelet again. She'd had several glasses of champagne by this point and thought defiantly that maybe she just _would_ go on a date with Freddy Washington. His money, at least, came through legitimate business and was bound to be a good deal more reliable. Plus, he was younger than Flattop Jones and a good deal better looking.

Jean caught her scowl and ribbed her then filled their glasses up again. "Sometimes you have to go after what you want, my girl."

The party lasted long into the night, continuing after the other patrons had been obliged to leave and the club was being packed away. Any time one of the girls attempted to make her good evenings, Big Boy commanded that she stay and several of the girls consequently drank so much they ended up being sick. Ella herself was drunker than she had ever been before and when Big Boy at last departed, abruptly and with only a shouted goodbye over his shoulder, Ella was more than a little relieved. The other girls poured out of the club to find taxis but she found she was unsteady on her feet and her stomach lurched dangerously when she rose. Not wanting to make a fool of herself on the streets, she stumbled back to the dressing room where she forced herself to sip water until the buzzing in her head subsided and she could move without feeling nauseous.

Rising still unsteady, she took a deep breath and left the dressing room to walk out through the deserted club.

The club was silent and dark save for the lights in the foyer and over the stairs, all the chairs and tables packed up and the waitstaff all gone home. As she walked past the stage, a voice hissed from the shadows: "Ella!"

Startled, she jumped with a small cry as Freddy leapt out from behind the bandstand, grinning triumphantly.

"Freddy!" she gasped, more than a little alarmed. "What are you doing here? How did you not get kicked out earlier?"

Freddy preened, hands shoved deep in his pockets. "I hid inside the ladies powder room, in one of the cubicles!" He carrolled. "When I heard that grotesque gangster leave, I snuck out. I was going to drive you home but then I saw you come back here and thought we might have a private moment to talk."

Ella stared at the persistent oaf and felt suddenly very fed up. In the height of her drunkenness, he had not seemed quite so unappealing but now she was sobering up and not so inclined to patience.

"Freddy, please," she said wearily. "I'm tired and want to go home." She made to step towards the curtained door at the far end of the club, but Freddy ducked in front of her.

"I see you like my present," he gestured to her wrist and Ella recalled the diamond bracelet there, lifting her arm a little. She had admired it often during the night, finding herself more and more reluctant at the idea of giving it back.

"Oh - yes," she faltered. "It's - incredibly beautiful, thank you," It was hard to talk clearly through the fog of champagne and for some reason, the way Freddy just stood there with his hands in his pockets, grinning at her, was terribly disconcerting. "But I'm just deciding on whether I should keep it or not, truly, you see - "

"Well, you're wearing it," Freddy pointed out affably. "It would seem the choice has been made. I'm so glad."

"No, no, Freddy," Ella tried to make herself understood. "It's a very nice gift and you're very kind to give it to me but I don't want you to misunderstand my intentions - "

Freddy shrugged. "Seems to me if a lady accepts a gift, her intentions are clear," he said, still in that pleasant tone of voice - that was rousing growing wariness in Ella's chest.

"Fine then," she said firmly and began to unclasp the bracelet from her wrist, unsteady fingers fumbling in their gloves. She got it off and held it out to him. "I'm sorry, Mr. Washington, but I cannot accept this gift."

Freddy stared at her for a long moment and Ella's heart began to pound when she saw the dull gleam of anger deep in his eyes, though his expression had not changed.

"Come on now, Ella," he wheedled. "This virtuous act was cute at first but it's getting tiresome."

She bristled. "I don't know what you mean."

"Oh come now," Freddy took a step closer to her. "I indulged it to begin with because it was so charming but I think you're taking it too far. I know what you chorus girls are like, there's no need to play coy with me."

Angered, Ella lifted her chin to him. "Oh really? What happened to me being different to all the rest?"

Freddy scoffed and threw his hands up. "Well, I was just playing along, darling. Like I said, it was awfully cute. But I'm tired of it now. Come on, let's have some fun."

He stepped forward quickly and took hold of her by the waist and alarmed, she twisted away from him, backing up, her blood beginning to race.

"Freddy, I'm afraid you've got the wrong idea," she tried to speak firmly, but her voice was wavering, holding out one hand as if to ward him back.

Freddy laughed, that beady anger still lit in his eyes. "Do you take me for a fool? I know you're as trampy as the rest of them - or do I need to be packing a tommy gun to catch your eye?"

Without thinking, Ella darted forward and slapped Freddy hard across the face. This spoiled brat disgusted her, thinking it was his right to insult her just because she hadn't been born with a silver spoon in her mouth.

Freddy put a hand to his cheek and stood there, gaping at her in shock. She glared at him furiously then drew herself up and swept around him, wrapping her coat tighter around her.

A moment later and Freddy grabbed her by the wrist, yanking her roughly back to him and spinning her around. She tried to cry out but he mashed her lips beneath his, holding her hard against him. She struggled desperately but found she could not break his grip. The realisation of his strength terrified her and she lurched as violently as she could but still she could not force him off. She could smell cologne mingled with perspiration as he pressed up against her, his lips baby soft and repugnant.

Finally he pulled away and she tried to wipe her face, shuddering with revulsion, only to find her arms pinned to her sides.

"Freddy, stop," she cried out. "Leave me alone!"

"You're really not like the others!" Freddy breathed hotly, his breath stinking of champagne. "Your'e so much more exciting with this game you play."

He began to force her coat from her shoulders and she tried to knee him between the legs as his disgusting hands were groping at her body, the thin pale-green silk of the dress she wore affording little protection. He pushed her back against a table and she went wild with panic, trying to scream as his lips crushed hers again.


	15. Chapter 14

**FOURTEEN**

Suddenly, there was the murmur of voices and the lights of the club went on.

Startled, Freddy let her go, standing upright to turn around and she pushed him off her, rolling away from him.

At the curtained door of the club, Flattop and Itchy stood, clearly having just returned from some duty, both in their favoured business suits and staring dispassionately at the scene.

"We ain't interruptin', I hope," Itchy said, scratching his neck.

Ella huddled by one of the tables, horrified by the situation. She couldn't possibly try and explain what had just happened - not to two heartless mobsters, not in front of her attacker. Humiliated and frightened, she smoothed back the hair that had been disarrayed during the struggle, keeping her eyes lowered.

"What? No! No, nothing like that," Freddy hastened to say. "We were just leaving."

Flattop looked at Ella for a moment, face expressionless, then looked at Freddy. "You ain't supposed to be here, bud," he said flatly. "It's after hours."

Freddy extended his hands, palms up and shrugged. "Time flies at the Club Ritz," he tried to joke but the two men just continued to stare at him and he grew flustered and jammed his hands inside his pockets. "Well, we'll be leaving then," he turned to Ella, who was fumbling fretfully with the shoulders of her dress, feeling horribly exposed though she was entirely covered. "Come on, Ella, I'll drive you home, shall I?" he announced with forced gaiety.

Ella's stomach twisted sickeningly. "No, no," she said, her voice sounding weak and strangled to her ears. "You go on. I - I left something behind. Go on without me."

Without giving him a chance to protest, she stumbled away from the club room towards the dressing room, closing the door firmly behind her.

She collapsed in a trembling heap on her dressing chair, snatching Jean's bottle of gin from her table and pouring herself a neat tumbler, her hand shaking so much she spilled it. Sipping the drink quickly, she sobbed hard for a moment, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand to get the taste of Freddy off.

Looking at herself in the mirror, she could see that her lipstick had been smeared, a dead giveaway. No doubt the gangsters thought they'd been merely canoodling, that she'd been a willing participant. She wiped the lipstick away with a tissue and continued to drink the strong gin.

What was she going to do now? How could she continue to work here while Freddy was a patron and clearly not willing to give up? The thought of seeing him again made her feel ill.

She was wiping her tears when there was a sharp knock at the dressing room door. Fearing Freddy, she jolted up, but then the door was opened and Flattop was there, her coat folded over his arm. Of course, she hadn't stopped to retrieve it when fleeing the club.

He leaned against the door frame, recalling to mind her confusing dream, and looked at her steadily. "He's gone," he informed her. "Itchy walked him out to his car."

She bit her lip, holding back fresh tears. "Thank you," she said quietly.

Flattop sauntered into the dressing room, placing Ella's coat over the back of a nearby chair, pushing his hands into his pockets then drawing one out with something sparkling held out in it.

"Ya dropped this."

She blinked and saw it was the wretched diamond bracelet.

"I don't want it," she said, turning away.

Flattop shrugged. "Then sell it."

He tossed it onto her dressing table then leaned up against the wall next to it, looking down at her with cool contemplation. She took another sip of her gin and did not look up at him, wanting him desperately to go away - but feeling strangely safe due to his presence.

"Ella, is there a situation you need sorted out here?" he queried her and she glanced up at him in surprise.

"Wh-what do you mean?" she stammered and he half-smiled, snorting quietly.

"Want me to have a little word to Mr. Washington?" he said plainly and Ella drew in a breath, looking back down at the diamond bracelet. Yes, she wanted to cry, yes please! She was suffused with longing for the whole horrible situation to be vanished away, for Freddy to disappear and for her to never have to see him again.

But that would place her in Flattop's debt again.

She drew in a shaky breath and touched her fingertips to her forehead, tears threatening to fall.  
"Come on kid," Flattop drawled. "This seems an awful lotta fuss for somethin' that could be taken care of real easy."

"What would you do?" she asked quietly and he reached over her and picked up the gin bottle, pouring himself a glass.

"Just tell him to back off, nice and simple like," he lifted the glass to her. "Anythin' else don't come cheap."

She felt a thrill of terror run through her at the implication in those words. As far removed from the business as she was, she still knew what the gangsters got up to - every day the radio and newspapers were filled with stories of broken arms and split kneecaps, of people found shot dead or never found again at all. What was she doing? Was she making a deal with a murderer? Where would that leave her? But she knew - knew that if he said the word to Freddy, the stupid coward would never come near her again. And she wanted that, more than anything.

Her eyes fell on the diamond bracelet lying amongst the clutter of her makeup and she grabbed hold of it and stood up, pressing it into his hand.

"Please tell him to never come near me again," she entreated him with wide, wet eyes. "And take this as payment."

Without taking his eyes from her he lifted the glass to his lips and took a sip.

"No problem, kid," he said. "But don't insult me."

She felt desperate. "How much is it, then? That's the best I have."

Flattop pushed himself off the wall, a little sneer on his lips. "Ya think I can't do a favour for a dame?" He let the bracelet drop to the carpet disdainfully. "I ain't hard up, yannow."

Ella stared up at the gangster and felt something warm flood through her. She was still quite drunk and overwhelmed by his actions, this seeming kindness towards her. Her heart began to thud hard as she looked up at him, admiring the broadness of his shoulders, feeling her skin prickle beneath the coolness of his gaze.

"I don't want to owe you," she said softly and he shrugged.

"We all owe somebody somethin'," he said and then grinned. "'Cept me."

He lifted his hand to her neck, pushing her hair back over it and the smooth leather of the gloves on her bare skin made the pit of her stomach felt like warm oil then, an excited wave of gooseflesh sweeping over her.

"Then how do I repay you?" she breathed as he withdrew his hand.

An eyebrow flickered. "You don't. That's how it's a favour."

And just like that, she knew she wanted him. The alcohol and stress combined made her reckless and she felt that if she didn't act then, she never would.

"Then," she said, her heart beating so hard she thought it might rupture. "At least let me say thank you."

And she grabbed hold of his lapels and stood up on tiptoe, inclining her head towards his mouth. He was still too tall and out of reach and for a moment she feared ultimate embarrassment but then he lowered his head toward her and their lips met.

A jolt of pleasure gripped Ella as they kissed. He was restrained at first but when Ella's inexperience became clear he took the lead, bending further so she could stand flat, one arm around her waist and his other hand cupping her head. Flattop's lips were rough and tasted of tobacco and whiskey and gin, a welcome and marked change to Freddy's. He tasted dangerous, she decided and decided also that she liked it. There were butterflies flocking her stomach, the way they used to when she was still in love with Harry and his kisses had been so exciting. But Harry's kisses could not match Flattop's for skill and she heard herself make a little noise of pleasure as her mouth was coaxed open and their tongues darted against each other. She had her arms up around his neck and let a hand slide up the back of his head, through the meticulously styled short brown hair to the top of his peculiar flat cranium.

He finished the kiss and pulled away from her firmly but gently, looking down at her with a little smile.

"Geez, kid, you sure are full of surprises," he said, as collectedly as ever. "Come on, I'll get ya home."

It took all of Ella's courage to confess she was frightened Freddy might be waiting for her at her home, but when she did, Flattop drove her. He walked her up to the front door of her building and she wondered if he would expect to come inside now - she wasn't quite ready for that and wasn't sure how she was going to say no and the thought of it, after her earlier encounter with Freddy, made her anxious.

But he stopped at the door, hands in the pockets of his overcoat and gave her a little smile.

"So, how's about you and me get some dinner tomorrow night, hm?"

She felt warm with pleasure and smiled up at him brightly. "I'd like that."

"After you've finished."

"Okay." She knew she must be crazy, to be throwing herself at a gangster like this, but for the first time in a very long time she was also feeling the thrill of attraction, deep and intense, and she couldn't resist.

His mouth twitched as he beheld her excitement and then he grabbed hold of her wrist and pulled her to him and her stomach tipped up as he bent her into another kiss. This one was hungrier and more forceful and she was thankful for his arms supporting her as her knees turned to jelly. She kissed him back with equal fervour and began to toy with the idea of asking him in...

Then he'd stopped, drawing back and grinning down at her, half-lidded eyes glinting under the streetlight.

"Better get inside, doll. Don't keep me waitin' tomorrow." He turned away and started down the steps before stopping and turning back to her. "Say - wear that little green number you got. I like that one."

Blushing and pleased to think he'd paid some attention, she did as she was told.

Despite herself, Ella was nervous going into the Club Ritz the next day, anxious that Freddy would be lurking about although he never showed up ordinarily until the evening. The coast was clear but she still breathed easier when she was safely ensconced in the dressing room.

Breathlessly she told Jean what had happened the previous evening and Jean gasped and slapped a hand over her mouth and then squealed and drummed her heels excitedly.

"Oh, that louse Freddy!" Jean railed but then sighed and gripped Ella's wrists. "Oh but I told you Flattop could be cute. Tell me everything - was it just a kiss?"

"Two, actually," Ella admitted and then suppressed a bashful grin. "I kissed him first."

Jean's eyes widened and her jaw dropped. "You didn't! Oh my god, that's the cat's meow! Gee girl, I am proud of you!"

Ella was giggling hopelessly, the dark thoughts of Freddy chased away. "I was very drunk," she confessed.

"Clearly not drunk enough," Jean declared. "If the night ended on a kiss."

Ella ducked her head and pressed her lips tight together. Truth was, she'd found it difficult to sleep that night, replaying the kisses in her mind, squirming beneath her blankets. She had allowed herself the most fleeting imaginings of what Flattop's hands upon her might be like before her cheeks burned and she buried her head beneath the pillow.

Jean didn't miss a trick. "If you wanted to - why didn't you?"

Ella shrugged. "I was still upset after Freddy and besides, I've really never done that sort of thing before. He's used to far more worldly women than me. And plus - " she hesitated. With the sobriety of daytime, she had begun to panic. She'd kissed a gangster! Twice! Agreed to let him scare off a would-be suitor for her. Agreed to go out with him for dinner! Was she getting way in over her head?

"Should I do it, Jean?" Ella held Jean's hands tight, gazing at her friendly questioningly.

Jean looked surprised and then said plainly: "Well - do you want to?"

Ella was taken aback by the bluntness of the question. It left no room for ifs or buts.

"Yes," she said eventually and Jean threw her hands up.

"Well, dammit all, girl - do it then!"


	16. Chapter 15

**FIFTEEN**

Ella swept out into the Club Ritz, resplendant in jade green silk, her hair stylishly set in finger waves and the ends pin-curled at the nape of her neck. She was excited and nervous, the memories of her good-night kisses flashing up bright in her mind, a little shy to see this man again who was so outside her realm of experience. But she was pleased with how she looked

She thought the bar seemed a good place to wait and ordered a champagne while she stood there to give her a little dutch courage. On the stage, Breathless Mahoney was singing _Body and Soul_. She remembered Flattop in the car, that first time driving her home, saying that he loved the song and couldn't help but smile a little to herself, hearing it with fresh ears - then catching herself and shaking her head at the sentimentality.

A couple of the girls passed by and stopped for a quick chat. They had a toast and swapped a little gossip and then they moved on.

The club was very mellow that night, seeming emptier than usual, those who were there in laidback humours, content to dine and murmur quietly to each other. Even Big Boy himself was in a relaxed attitude, quietly dining with Texie Garcia, the glamorous Madam who oversaw most of the brothels in town.

At least fifteen minutes had gone by and she was beginning to wonder a little. She knew she hadn't taken long to get ready, having set her hair that morning and finishing the do that evening, it being a suitable style to wear on stage. Basically, she'd shimmied out of her costume and into her dress, touched up her powder and lipstick and had been ready. It wouldn't have been even ten minutes. Surely that wasn't keeping him waiting too long. Surely?

With an attitude of nonchalance, she turned around to face the club, leaning against the bar, and surveying it. Only a few gangsters dotted the crowd that night, a couple she had met who nodded to her when they noticed her, but there was no sign of Flattop or those he seemed most friendly with - Itchy, B.B. Eyes, Mumbles - had they all gone on somewhere with some of the other girls?

Dejected, she turned back to her champagne and ordered another, settling down on the bar stool. She'd wait just a little longer, she supposed. Maybe he'd been held up somewhere.

Either the time ticked by slowly or she was drinking quickly because she was on her third champagne and uncertain altogether how long she'd been waiting - except that it was surely beyond any margin for error. She felt conspiciously alone sitting at the bar and began to imagine all eyes in the room were on her, discussing her solitude and wondering about it. She was going to have to face facts: she'd been stood up.

Embarrassed and sore at heart, she slid from her stool and left the club, slinking out with her head down.

The whole ride home, she instructed heself not to cry. "It's not worth it," she told herself. "It was only going to be dinner anyway, it's not like you were dating or had set your heart on him - just some rotten gangster! You're only upset because the whole club saw you sitting by yourself!"

But the sensible admonishments did little to soothe her hurt pride or the bitter sense of rejection.

She was safely inside her apartment before she let herself cry, just a little. The worst of it was not knowing why - especially after he'd kissed her the way he had. Maybe he'd been just playing a nasty game - but surely she wasn't worth the bother! Perhaps he'd decided she was too silly and childish for a big shot like him - or maybe he'd just forgotten about her altogether. After all, he had before.

Ella had never been stood up before and it was a nasty blow, made the worse by the fact she really had lost her head for a little bit there - her stupid dreams, doing her hair, confiding in Jean. She felt utterly foolish and her heart throbbed with humiliation and hurt, even though she knew the scoundrel was not worth it.

She only let herself shed a few tears before she changed into her nightdress and washed away her makeup, taking her hair down and combing it out into pretty waves that fell to her shoulders. Then she switched off the lights, climbed into bed and determinedly resolved not to care a moment further.

Ella was awoken sometime later by a loud knock at her door. Startled out of a fitful sleep, her heart drumming at the shock, she stared confusedly out into the hallway, not sure what the noise that had roused her had been.

The knock came again and alarmed, she glanced at the clock that stood on her dresser, revealing the time to be three am. Who on earth could it be at such an hour? Maybe the building was on fire! Maybe Mrs Brooks had been robbed!

Gathering her robe around her, she darted to the door, leaving the latch on and opening it a crack, heart still thudding from the shock of being so abruptly woken.

Flattop stood on the other side, leaning casually against the door frame, looking down on her with a little smile.

"Hey kid," he drawled. "Let me in, hm."

Ella was too stunned to speak. The arrogance of the man was staggering and she wanted to slam the door in his face. However, he'd already knocked twice, loudly, and wasn't suffering himself to speak quietly either - and the last thing she wanted was for Mrs Brooks to come out to the landing and see her with a strange man at her door at this hour - or offend such a strange man!

Besides, she was overwhelmed with curiosity and the desire for a resolution.

Quickly undoing the latch she pulled back the door as he pushed it inwards, striding past her and lifting a cigarette to his lips as he did so. It was only as he walked easily into her living room that she remembered the shabbiness of her apartment, the threadbare carpets and sagging furniture and chipped crockery that had come with the place, how small and cramped and plain it all was. She followed after him quickly and before he could find the lightswitch, she flicked on a small lamp, hoping the dim light would minimise the conditions in which she lived.

He paced the carpet for a moment as he lit his cigarette, taking a long drawl and exhaling and she smarted further at the imposition - he hadn't even asked if he might and he had to know she didn't smoke!

He glanced back at her, seeming oblivious to the churning pool of emotions his presence was stirring in her chest.

"Got anythin' to drink, doll?"

It was too much for Ella.

"You cad!" she hissed, mindful of Mrs Brooks in the apartment next door. "You louse! You have a nerve!"

Flattop merely glanced at her disinterestedly from lowered lids and puffed out a lungful of smoke, immoveable.

Ella wanted to berate him more, but fear stopped her. Frustrated and dismayed, she stormed into the kitchen and found her one bottle of gin, purchased for evenings of board games with friends and barely touched since the Club Ritz had consumed her nights.

Flattop sauntered over and leaned on the bench, puffing away as she mixed the spirit and seltzer, making herself a strong one too.

"Call of duty, kid," he informed her, then locked his eyes onto hers. "Business always comes first."

There was simply no arguing to be done with that tone of voice.

"So what are you doing here?" she queried sulkily, raising her glass to her lips before stopping. "And how did you get into the building?" she demanded and Flattop chuckled, clinking his glass against hers.

"I got my ways. And I figured I'd drop by and say hi, seeing as how we missed each other earlier."

"At three am?" she shifted out from behind the counter and into the living room, pulling her robe tighter around her, suddenly self-conscious as the initial surrealness wore off.

"I'm wide-awake," he followed her, pausing on the rug to look around him properly. "So are you."

Once again she had to bite down an outraged exclaimation. "I _was_ asleep," she said pointedly, but he was preoccupied.

"Geeze, kid, you ever think about tradin' up?" he was looking around him with distaste. "Sure you can afford it now."

Ella burned, hating him wholly then. "Is making fun of me just a game to you?" she blurted before catching herself, not wanting him to see how much it distressed her. Flattop cocked a brow at her, the faintest surprise registering in his eyes.

"Who's makin' fun?" he queried easily.

Ella sat down in the armchair with its broken spring, hearing it creak beneath her, feeling hopeless and defeated. "Couldn't you have left me a message?" she asked, trying to keep the wretchedness from her voice.

"What for?" he was looking about him for a place to grind out his cigarette and eventually crushed it between the fingers of one gloved hand. "Ya know how this game works by now, doll. Got no time to worry about leavin' messages for dames lookin' to blow their wigs. Ain't my fault ya can't put two and two together."

It was clear she was going to get nowhere. She knew she should ask him to leave but she desperately wanted something from him first - an apology, a show of remorse, some little drop of kindness that would ease her sense of woundedness, make her feel less of a fool for those tears shed earlier.

Flattop continued to pace and she wondered at it - whilst his demeanour was as cool as ever, usually by now he would've settled himself down somewhere.

"If you're going to stay, you might as well sit down," she finally said awkwardly. Maybe he'd been waiting for the invitation - though he sure hadn't stood on ceremony thus far.

He turned to her with a sly grin. "_Am_ I gonna to stay?" he asked, an insinuation in his voice and, on edge, she wrapped her robe tighter again. He marked the action and smiled further.

"Never can knock off straight after business," he mused, draining his glass. "Always too juiced up. Need time to wind down first. Thought it would be nice to have company." He held the glass out to her to indicate he wanted another and wordlessly, she stood to fetch it. As she passed him by into the kitchen, she was aware he turned to watch her keenly and was so grateful for the shapeless form of her robe.

The thought crossed Ella's mind to ask what type of business he was talking about, but she knew she didn't really want to know. Perhaps it had just been drugs or a debt collection... unpleasant but not unconscienable. Although the newspapers were resplendant with gory details, she remained willingly unclear exactly on which crook was performing which deed. Jean had said Flattop was meant to be the best at what he did - but hadn't known exactly what that was. It was better that way, she told herself nervously as she mixed another drink, altogether better.

"Do you like your work?" she enquired hesitantly and he accepted the glass she offered, flashing her an unreadable look from those cold hazel eyes.

"Love it," he affirmed. "But that ain't nothin' for a little trick like you to worry her pretty head about."

She felt condescended to, but said nothing. Flattop took off his overcoat and then finally sat down on the same creaking armchair she'd just been in. He looked over at her, standing nervously in the kitchen in her blue and white robe, and then patted his lap.

"Come sit here," he told her.

Ella's jaw dropped. This was really all too much!

"I will not," she whispered loudly, glancing anxiously at the wall behind him as though Mrs Brooks would instinctively sense the attempted hanky panky happening next door to her. "How dare you suggest such a thing after standing me up and barging in here in the middle of the night treating me like any old tramp while my landlady is right next door! You louse!"

Flattop was unmoved, setting his drink on the lamp table. "Kid, I'll take ya to dinner tomorrow night if it's so important to you. It ain't no big deal."

Further outraged he was entirely misunderstanding her not to mention the very principle of the thing, she summoned what courage she had to make her final stand.

"Mr Jones, it's very late and I have a rehearsal tomorrow," she whispered firmly, marching to the hallway, lifting her chin and standing straight. "I have to ask that you leave, please."

He looked up at her implacably, brows slightly raised as if to ask were she really serious. His silent coolness made her uncomfortable and she wavered, shifting her weight from one foot to another, her head twitching. "Please go," she said more uncertainly.

Abruptly, he stood, not taking his eyes from her and she started a little, pressing back against the wall. She was aware, in the cramped space, how much larger than her he was and how much more unflinching.

Still staring with an unyielding yet strangely unreadable expression, he walked towards where she stood by the doorway to the hall, and for a moment she thought he was going to do as she wished.

Then he drew up close to her, put his arms around her waist and bent her into a kiss.

ooo

_Hey peeps! So I see there are still many readers, which makes me totally excited! And thanks HEAPS to those three of you who have left reviews so far! Amazing! I hope some of you readers out there may consider leaving reviews also now things are beginning to intensify! Thanks so much for your reading of this story, I hope you're enjoying it!_


	17. Chapter 16

_Sexy times ahead peeps! Skip to the end of the chapter if you want to avoid the hanky panky!_

**SIXTEEN**

For a moment, Ella panicked and tried to resist, further outraged and frightened to be kissed by a virtual stranger alone in her apartment at such a lonely hour. But then the taste of him - tobacco and gin - the scent of his cologne, the strength of his arms supporting her transported her back to the previous evening when he'd kissed her on her doorstep, making her insides liquefy and her dreams run wild. Unlike with Freddy's revolting and unwanted advances, Flattop's embrace enlivened her, drew out her desire so that she had to confront it and in a moment she was kissing him back, in a paroxysm of desperate self-loathing for it. He tugged her tighter against him so she could feel the length and firmness of his body beneath his suit and she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, still wanting to want to pull away but not wanting to really at all. It occured to her horribly then that this is exactly what she'd been waiting for him to do since he arrived, and felt ashamed. Could she really be so cheaply bought? He hadn't even said a word in apology.

Flattop pressed her up against the wall, one hand cradling the back of her head and kissing her deeply, pushing his hips hard against hers and as intoxicating as she found it, she knew things were going to get way out of hand if she allowed it all to continue.

Ella pulled her head away from him, breaking the kiss, panting a little and embarrassed about it.

"All right," she breathed. "Dinner tomorrow night."

"Swell," Flattop murmured, still close against her, pressing a kiss close to her ear and another further down her neck. She shuddered; the sensation was delicious. "I'll take ya to the Empire Room at Palmer House."

Alarmingly, he began to tug at the cords tying her robe together and she pushed frantically at his hands. "We should say good night then," she whispered urgently and he stopped, leaning back to look down at her curiously.

"What are ya so afraid of, doll?" he wanted to know, an edge of irritation to his voice.

Ella couldn't understand why they all found it so difficult to comprehend that she was simply unused to this sort of behaviour, that she hadn't lived a life like theirs. She felt herself growing upset, leaning up against the wall in the half-light, him looming over her.

"I don't do this sort of thing," she whispered, flickering distressed eyes up to his, looking away again. "Besides, after tonight - if this is all - " she stammered, too embarrassed to continue, and he started to laugh softly before taking her chin in one hand and tilting her head up to look up him.

"Baby, if I got work again tomorrow, I'll take ya out another night. Just the way things are done. What's the big deal?"

_That you'll never speak to me again_, she thought desperately but was too shamed to say. Instead she tugged her head away.

"What? I could be with Babs, yannow."

The point drove home like a sledgehammer although he said the words with no cruelty - it was a simple fact to him. And Ella was forced to concede to it - he could've sought out Babs, who wouldn't hesitate to climb into bed with him and who probably had a wealth of experience Ella couldn't hope to match.

And finally, there was the increasingly unavoidable realisation that she wanted it. Him standing so close, the feel of his solid frame, the force of his presence with all of its tough-guy slouch - he may not have been a good-looking man, but there was something about his roughness that she found compelling, that had been working on her subconscious without her being aware of it, sharpening her desire until finally it was poking through into her awareness, only aided by his attention. Her knees trembled and she felt herself weaken, her posture softening. He saw it immediately and stepped forward to slip arms about her again, tugging her hips against his, making her stomach lurch with longing.

"My landlady might hear," she whispered feebly as he lifted a hand to her hair, pushing it back over her ear softly.

"So tell her it was mice," he replied imperturbably and bent to kiss her again.

This time she didn't stop him as he undid the cord, parting the front of her robe to slide his hands beneath, over her rayon nightgown to her back. Ella's heart was pounding, unable to halt her nervousness or uncertainty, holding onto his shoulders as they kissed. His hands slid up her waist and back down again, over her hips and back over her bottom, which made her catch her breath a little.

Flattop broke the kiss again, then pulled her away from the wall, pushing her in front of him towards her bedroom. She became breathless as they entered, growing giddy as she realised she was really about to do this.

Once inside, he was quick to peel off his gloves, undo his bow-tie and discard it on her dresser, slipping out of his shoes and then taking off his sports coat revealing finally the shoulder holster he wore with the deadly-looking black gun inside it. The sight of the weapon gave her pause as he shrugged the holster off, placing it carefully on her dresser and she sat on the bed, on edge, wondering if she should change her mind. It had been such a long time - and then only with one man, if you didn't count Lightfoot, and she was so inexperienced and had never expected to be having such a sordid rendezvous with a man to whom she was not married, to a man who wore a gun holster beneath his expensive suit day to day as though it were simply a part of regular attire.

But then, in his shirt-sleeves and slacks, he came and sat beside her, the bed depressing beneath his weight. He placed a hand atop hers where they were folded on her knee and for the first time she felt his bare skin, without gloves. His hand felt rough and weathered but then he was lifting it, trailing a finger along the fabric of her nightdress, between her breasts then up her sternum, eliciting a shiver from her skin. Ella's nipples peaked beneath the thin rayon and she wanted desperately to conceal this fact, but he was pushing the robe from her shoulders then, leaving her feeling vulnerable in only the thin nightgown.

Ella felt stupid and awkward, too unsure and scared to do anything, sitting there like a blushing virgin on her wedding night. At least with Harry she'd had the reassurance of long-standing familiarity and intimacy; they'd discovered sex together and though both nervous and awkward had at least been able to laugh about it. Flattop was much older than her and far more experienced and she barely knew him besides - she wasn't yet quite comfortable with him, for all the attraction she felt. Add to that he was a dangerous and sinister man and she felt thoroughly overwhelmed, certain she was going to make a fool of herself.

Flattop pressed a hand against her cheek and leaned in toward her, chuckling softly. "You are the sweetest thing," he whispered and then pulled her onto his knee, cradling her while they kissed again. She felt better supported in his arms this way but not comforted - he had sounded amused, not tender, and she wondered again if she were making a mistake.

Then his hand was sliding up her leg, pushing the nightdress up and Ella's stomach was dropping. She wanted to pull away for a moment, suddenly sure she just wasn't ready for this, but then he was touching her.

She heard herself make a little noise against his mouth. It was only as his fingertips brushed her sensitive skin that she became truly aware how much her body had been responding to their embraces. The pleasure was immediate, and intense. His strokings were soft and deliberate, exploring her thoroughly, making her whimper and twitch, before he settled at the core, the spot that elicited the most intense response. Ella's breath was coming ragged and hard and she clung tight to his neck, barely aware they had stopped kissing as he rubbed her gently. Harry had tried, and fumbled. He had been too rough and impatient, taking offence when she tried to guide his hand. So she'd never been sure exactly what was expected of her, did not know how to answer when he asked if it was right. She'd just said 'yes, it's lovely darling,' and had made a little noise or two. Now, she understood. The pleasure was excrutiating because she could feel it was building to something more and yet she didn't want it to end. Ella was barely aware she'd allowed her legs to part, one foot pushing against the bed, the other on the floor, or that she was thrusting her hips in response to the movement of his hand. Flattop was alternating between kissing her neck and lips and watching her expression, although she could not see because her eyes were shut tight.

It happened when he manipulated his hand around to push a finger inside her while his thumb continued to stroke her. Her stimulated body was unprepared for the extra sensation and something powerful ripped out of her, a wave of pleasure so intense and all-consuming it left her shaking. Without being aware of it, she cried out and he shushed her with his mouth.

"Mice don't squeak like that," he whispered close to her ear with sly amusement.

She shuddered on his lap as his hand stilled, then withdrew before sliding up over her stomach, still covered in the thin rayon nightdress. Ella tingled all over, taken aback by what she had experienced but embarrassed by such lack of restraint in front of another, of something that felt so revealingly intimate having been elicited from her by a man such as he. And had she been very loud? Could Mrs Brooks have heard? She was terribly anxious suddenly and buried her head against his chest, not wanting to look at him and have him laugh at her release, not wanting to think about the horror of discovery by another.

But then Flattop was shifting, scooping her up easily before placing her down on the bed as he stood, then began to remove the rest of his clothing. Nervous again, she drew her feet up onto the bed and darted looks from them to him as piece by piece he stripped down to undershirt and boxer shorts, taking time to fold them carefully over the back of her dresser chair. When it was just his shorts, he stepped over to her again and slipped his hands beneath her arms, pulling her up before grabbing hold of her nightdress and lifting it up over her head, leaving her standing there completely naked. He pulled her close, his hands cupping her buttocks, and kissed her fiercely, leaving her no time for shyness. She could feel the hardness of his arms against hers, the shape and bulk of them, his chest firm against her breasts and then, pressing into her hip - oh! Ella was frightened and excited at once and did not resist when he scooped her up again and put her on the bed, scooting in close beside her.

Flattop's mouth burned kisses down her neck and over her breasts, kissing and sucking and pulling her nipples between his teeth in a way that roused her and made her tingle between the thighs again. A hand slid between her legs once more and began to alternatively stroke and dip inside her, and she once again felt that gorgeous pleasure begin to build inside her, quickly provoked by the varying sensations.

But she could tell from the insistent way he pushed a finger into her that he wanted more now, that it was time for his own satisfaction. She was thrillingly apprehensive about what was to come, unsure what her slight body could deal with after so long. With Lightfoot it had been wretched; she had not been at all aroused and found it painful. With Harry it had been much better, especially in the early days, but still often uncomfortable. But though she was deliciously ready now, Flattop was better endowed than they and her heart drummed out a tense rhythm when he rolled her flat onto her back and got between her thighs, sliding a hand beneath her bottom to lift her hips up.

When Flattop pushed in, she was tight and it hurt a little but also felt wonderful, far better than she had expected. She felt him shudder as he gazed down at her, his expression still but desire burning in his eyes. She wrapped her arms around him as he began to thrust. Ella heard herself moan and then bit down hard on her lip to be quiet; the bed was placed against the wall that stood between her and Mrs. Brooks' own rooms. The first few thrusts hurt and then her body relaxed and they felt only good and soon, better than good.

"That's it, sweet-pea," he muttered when he felt her ease into it and she had shivered in delight. His pace was steady and measured, but forceful, not gentle in the slightest. Overwhelmed and delirious, she gripped his shoulders, feeling the firm muscle there as he lifted his face from her hair and propped himself up onto his hands to watch her as he screwed her. Even at this point in the game, she was still shy yet and lowered her eyes to avoid his gaze. He dipped his head and kissed her hard and passionately, his powerful thrusts making the rickety old bedsprings groan and shriek. She was embarrassed by the noise, a none-too-subtle reminder of her modest lodgings, and terribly frightened there would be a knock from Mrs Brooks at any moment on the door.

But for all that, what they were doing felt wonderful. Ella may still have been awkward and shy but she was quickly growing aware just how much she had missed the closeness of another person, the loveliness of intimacy together, how fantastically safe she could feel with a strong man to hold her. And in all the delirium and intensity she was experiencing, she found herself dreamily musing that he was as strong a man as they came, forgetting for the time being that what made him strong was his dangerousness and cruelty - or forgetting at least that these were qualities to fear, not grow twitterpatted over. But right then, as she clung to him, even wrapping her legs around his waist in a wanton embrace she had never considered before, she was so far gone as to decide his coldness and seeming ruthlessness made him all the more desirable - made her all the more safer with him.

Flattop's pace picked up and he held her pressed powerlessly down against the mattress as he thrust towards his own gratification, one hand slipping to cup her head while he nipped and kissed at her lips. The sensation in her body as his thrusts grew rougher and harder was almost too much to bear, a powerful flow of pleasure and pressure and she wrapped her arms around his neck tightly. He scooped another hand beneath one of her hips and lifted them up as he drove home, suddenly stiffening and pushing his face into her neck, only the softest of grunts from the gangster who never lost his cool. But she could feel him as he emptied inside her and gasped in, hard, as he did.

Flattop was still for a moment on top of her, his body pleasantly hot and heavy. Then he pushed up onto his hands and pulled out of her, a strange feeling that made her shut her legs quickly as he rolled onto the bed beside her. The tiny bedroom was strangely silent now without the creaking of the bed and Ella once again found herself worrying about Mrs Brooks.

The night air was cool on her exposed body and she sat up and reached quickly for the discarded gown, self-conscious of her nakedness.

Beside her Flattop sighed, then reached up to twine his fingers in her hair, tugging on it. "Sweet little Miss Goody Two-Shoes," he drawled and then half-laughed. "Kid, you sure do surprise. I pictured you holdin' back a whole lot more."

Ella felt flattered and embarrassed to think he had thought about having his way with her before. She wondered for how long and wanted to ask but chickened out. At least it meant that he'd had his eye on her - that he liked her. Didn't it? A niggling uncertainty began to tug at her heart - perhaps he had only ever wanted one thing and she had given it to him far too easily. Perhaps he did think her simply ridiculous with her naive ways and shabby apartment.

"Do you want a drink?" she asked quietly, still not looking at him.

"Yeah, doll. And my cigarettes."

When she came back he had put his boxers back on and she was glad, inspite of the intimacy they'd just shared. He sat up on the edge of the bed and lit a cigarette, mixing his drink stronger and then tugging her back onto his knee, where she felt far more at ease. She had been quietly stressed in the kitchen, wondering if she'd made a horrible mistake - that he would now grow disinterested or look upon her differently. But he seemed unchanged in attitude and she was somewhat relieved.

Mostly unchanged - he was now quite free about touching her and easily slipped a hand inside her gown to fondle one breast, the rough skin of his palm marked contrast against the creamy smoothness of her skin. The intimacy combined with the easy way he did it distracted her terribly from what he was saying.

"You ever hear Louis Armstrong play?" he was saying, his thumb stroking her nipple. Ella started.

"Uhm - no," she said and he took a drag on his cigarette and shifted her on his knee.

"Boy, he's somethin'," he continued. "I met him once, too. Nice guy."

Ella was impressed. "Really? How?"

Flattop smirked for a moment, reflecting. "He was playin' at the Sunset Cafe one night. I'd just finished some business upstairs and was leavin', carrying my violin case," Ella knew well enough what that meant! "And I'm goin' out through the back way when Louis passes by, sees me and takes me for some replacement fiddle player since his is out sick. Louis' blowin' his wig, sayin' I'm late and gotta go get suited up and I say, 'bud, I ain't no fiddle player'. He says, 'don't screw around with me, bo, I see that fiddle box you're carryin' there,' and right then the real fiddler struts in and Louis lookin' from him to me and back again and I see an understandin' in his eyes. I say 'I told you I ain't no fiddle player'. So he takes my hand and shakes it and says he's real sorry to have troubled me. Like I said, nice guy."

Ella wasn't sure how to react. These gangsters seemed to live in another reality! She almost wanted to smile even as she was perturbed.

Flattop finished his drink and scooted her off his knee, then stood up and began to fetch his clothing.

"Oh Freddy won't be botherin' you no more," he threw in casually. Ella jolted, a little disturbed by the memory of the odious man being brought into these intimate moments so nonchalantly. "I had a word to him. We have an understandin' now."

Ella was relieved although she wished the topic had come up at another time. "Thank you," she said as he began to dress.

"No sweat," Flattop pulled his undershirt on and Ella sat on the bed and watched him - since he was not looking at her, she felt comfortable doing so. His physique was good, though not Greek - solid and nearing heavyset, broad shoulders and thick waist. He looked like he worked out in some capacity and she was suddenly desperately curious about the life he lived beyond the Club Ritz - his habits when off duty, how he liked to spend his time beyond taking girls out to clubs, where he lived and what it might look like. She wondered if she would find out.

As he put on his shirt and slacks, she caught sight of a pocked scar on one shoulderblade and found herself wishing she had spent more time paying attention to his body, learning the little details that would tell his life. Their late-night rendezvous had been over altogether too quickly and she was suddenly morose, wondering what the next day would bring. He turned around and smiled at her with lips pressed shut as he did up his cufflinks and then pulled up his braces - and then, finally, the shoulder holster was strapped back on, he taking a moment to check the chamber of the gun before slipping it back into its pocket. He looked down and frowned a little at a crease on his slacks and brushed at it with one hand.

"You're lucky I ain't makin' no important calls now, kid," he said wryly and winked at her to let her know he was joking though she did not find it funny.

"What is the time?" she wondered, glancing at the clock on her dresser. "Gracious, it's almost five am!" She was horrified. "How will I ever get enough sleep before rehearsal?"

He smirked, doing up his bow tie in front of the dresser mirror. "You'll sleep like a baby."

"What if I oversleep?" she fretted, retrieving her nightdress from the floor.

He snorted and ran a comb through his hair, though it was little disarrayed. "You worry too much. Just tell 'em you were with me."

Ella glared at him in dismay. There was simply no way she could do such a thing - the deed itself had been one thing - a huge step - but sharing it openly? It was unthinkable.

Flattop caught her expression and shook his head a little. "Loosen up, babe. They'll all figure it out soon enough anyway. Ain't no point in pretendin' it's all hand-holdin'."

Ella was upset that he seemed incapable of understanding her perspective - but that feeling was quickly overwhelmed by a sudden shot of happiness as she realised the implication of his words. They suggested this was not to be the last time they would see each other and she was suffused with helpless pleasure at the thought, unable to keep herself from smiling, her cheeks flooding with colour.

Flattop shrugged on his coat and then pulled on his ubiqutous black gloves. Ella watched his hands disappear inside the tight leather and felt as though their revelation had been one of the more intimate moments of the evening.

"That's better," he said when he saw her smile, then stepped over to her and bent down to kiss her a last time, his mouth hot, chucking her chin afterwards. "Empire Room, tomorrow night, doll. I'll meet ya after the shows. Don't keep me waitin'."

With that, he walked out of her bedroom and a moment later she heard her front door click shut. Ella sat alone on her bed, the scent of cologne and tobacco still lingering in the air around her, and reflected dazedly over what she had done.


	18. Chapter 17

**SEVENTEEN**

The Empire Room at the Palmer House was as grand as its name suggested. Ella entered the imposing room on Flattop's arm, impressed and intimidated by the opulence. It was a large room, but not so that it lost its sense of exclusivity, with walls painted a rich green and long windows hung with gold curtains. Its many dining tables were arranged around a polished dance floor that also served as a stage where the renowed floor shows took place, behind which was a raised platform where the orchestra was arranged. Silver curtains hung behind the orchestra, festooned in gold, as a frame to the entertainment. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, dimmed to provide an intimate ambience. Even at the comparatively late hour there were many diners still in attendance, murmuring cheerily over their suppers.

The maitre-d'hotel greeted them very cordially and showed them to a table for two in an intimate position near the wall. Ella was self-conscious that he had assessed them as lovers and also a little disappointed not to be nearer the stage. Their waiter joined them soon after.

"The floor shows have finished for the evening," the waiter advised them courteously by way of explanation, handing them menus. "May I tell you about our specials?"

Flattop did not take his menu, glancing at it dismissively then looking up at the waiter. "Steak," he said. "Medium-rare, Diane. With the sides. Thanks bud. Ella," he looked at her across the table. "You should have the lobster, doll."

Ella looked up from the menu and blinked. "I should?" she repeated, a little confused.  
"Yeah," he replied then looked at the waiter again. "She'll have the lobster. Make it easy for her."

The waiter nodded and Flattop ordered a bottle of Bollinger as well as whiskey for himself.

"A cocktail for you, Ma'am?" the waiter asked her and, unsure, she looked to Flattop for guidance.

"Have one," he ordered, as nonchalant as always and she fumbled through the list, her greatest experience with cocktails being Martinis and Gin Fizzes. The Pink Lady appealed but after a moment she chose a Sidecar - principally because it was highly alcoholic and she was feeling like a liberal dose of Dutch Courage. Although it could be fairly asserted she had no further need to be shy around the flat-headed gangster, still she found him imposing - unable to look at him without memories of their illicit activity the night before flooding into her head.

Flattop leaned back in his chair and assessed her out of half-lidded eyes. "You look swell," he said finally, the first he had acknowledged her appearance all evening and she smiled at him, delighted to hear it. She was wearing the exquisite gold-shot white dress, pleased it was finally having an evening out worthy of its glamour.

"Thank you," she replied and wanted suddenly to be near to him, to have him touch her hand or kiss her cheek. But he was already looking disinterestedly around the room again, running a gloved finger down the lapel of his immaculate tuxedo as though to brush away invisible lint. Their drinks arrived and Ella shifted in her chair as she accepted hers, feeling the dull stab of pain in her inner-thigh muscles and flushing as though the waiter would be able to tell immediately. It was a sensation she had not experienced since her first few times with Harry - she had not realised it might be caused again after an extended absence of sex. The repeated twinges of mild pain as she had gone about her day had caused her some consternation - alternatively shame and pleasure, happy memories against conflicted ones.

She took a few hasty sips of her drink and glanced across at the gangster who continued to coolly survey the room. Ella wondered how it looked from his eyes - how he was asssessing and analysing what was going on - if he was, indeed, even paying that much attention and not merely lost in his own thoughts. Which led her to wonder what his thoughts might be. She felt disappointed he was not talking to her or paying her any particular attention and began to grow awkward with the silence between them, accentuated by the gentle strains of the band and the conversation going on at the tables nearby them. An upsetting thought began to niggle at the back of her mind, that she only held one sort of value to him, and to silence that thought she began hastily to speak.

"Where did you grow up?" she blurted out and he glanced at her, blinking in what seemed like surprise.

"I came to Chicago from the Cookson Hills," he said evasively. She realised he had not really answered her question but was not sure if she should challenge that.

"Why did you come here?" she queried and he took a long sip of his drink and looked at her sharply from the corner of his eye.

"I was brought in," he said in a rather clipped voice. "On some business."

She nodded, and sipped from her drink, gazing at him with an interested expression but he said nothing further.

"How long ago was that?" she pushed, desperate to keep the conversation going.

His mouth twitch irritably. "Five years, I guess."

"But that business is done?" She was uncomfortable with her own questions but wanted to keep the silence from falling between them once more.

He fixed her with a hard stare. "Yeah."

"But you decided to stay?" she sipped nervously at her drink and he shrugged a little.

"Business here is good. Lots of opportunities."

Ella decided to get off the subject of his work, hoping he would be more forthcoming on a different topic.

"Where did you go to school?"

Flattop set his glass down crisply on the table. "Is this an interrogation or what, kid?" a note or irritation in his drawl.

Ella coloured deeply and looked down at her drink. "I just thought it might be nice to know more about each other."

He snorted. "Anything you need to know, you'll learn along the way."

She felt annoyed in her turn. "I don't want us to just sit here silently," she said, a trace of a pout in her voice.

At that moment, the waiter arrived with their suppers. Ella was overwhelmed by the size of her dish, the bright red sea bug a daunting sight.

Flattop snickered when he saw her expression. "There ain't so much once you get into it," he said. "But if ya can't finish it - leave it."

Ella was unused to the idea of wasting food and blanched a little but Flattop was undisturbed and returned to ignoring her as he began to eat his meal. The waiter gently instructed her on how to break apart the various sections and use the claw cracker and then specially designed utensils to remove the meat, poured them champagne and then left them to it.

Resigned to the silence, Ella set about deconstructing the bug, dipping chunks of meat in the butter. As she began to eat, she found her tastebuds ignited and her senses thrilled by the succulent meat, paired so deliciously with the butter. It was easier to ignore the silence when she was consumed with the discovery of this new taste sensation and she was grateful Flattop had ordered for her. The alcohol on an empty stomach had sharpened her hunger and made her a little light-headed and shooting him a little look across the table, she found herself forgetting her discontent, instead admiring him somewhat dopily.

He gestured to her with a flick of his steak knife. "Save the tail til last," he advised around a mouthful of steak and she happily did so, not minding his lack of refinement in the slightest. She sipped from her champagne and the bubbly on top of the spirits she'd already consumed went straight to her head, making her feel brave.

Ella pushed aside her plate and delicately wiped at her mouth, still looking at Flattop.

"Don't you want to talk?" she asked boldly and he finished his last mouthful of steak, letting his cutlery fall onto the china with a clatter.

"To you?" he said with a note of sardony and she flinched a little as he wiped his mouth with the napkin, then dropped it onto the table, looking at her directly. "What would we talk about, kid?" He was smiling in a rather mean fashion, his lips pressed together.

Ella was hurt and wanted to point out that she'd attempted conversation earlier but she felt it would make no difference to him. Instead, she tried a new tack.

"What would you like to talk about?" she queried a little pertly and he shifted in his chair so that he was facing her more straight on, a faint look of curious interest flickering across his features.

"I didn't say I did want to talk to you," he pointed out, and she flinched again. "But since you're so damn eager to talk, how about you pick the topic?"

Ella took a hasty sip of her champagne and cast about in her mind for a topic. In truth, she wanted desperately to know about him - to understand him - and could only think of the bluntest lines of enquiry.

"Is your family alive?" she asked him rather desperately and abruptly he frowned, swivelled back to the table.

"You sure are nosey, kid," he growled. "What you think that's gonna teach ya, hm?"

She sat back in her chair, frustrated and disappointed. "Well fine then," she relented. "Why don't you choose?"

Flattop was silent for a moment, studying the way the champagne bubbled in his glass, before a little smirk spread over his lips.

"Did your landlady comment on the mice?" he queried insinuatively, cocking an eyebrow.

Ella found herself unarmed and quickly picked up her own champagne glass, gulping from it. Flattop watched her amusedly, leaning back in his chair. "What?" he said, unmistakable humour in his voice. "Don'tcha wanna talk, kid?"

She shot him a look that was half a glare and half an entreaty and he chuckled, pulling his cigarettes from inside his coat.

"Come on, kid, let's get out of here."

She was silent while he paid, then helped her into her coat. After he'd settled it on her shoulders he dropped his hands to her waist and let them linger there for a moment and she quivered inside. He lit a cigarette and offered her his arm. She watched him inhale and then asked: "Why do you always call me 'kid'?"

He glanced at her as they strolled towards his car, the late-night streets quiet save for a few late-night revellers on thier way home. "Because you are a kid." There was condescension in his voice and Ella felt herself pout a little.

"I'm not that much."

He snorted. "I didn't say it wasn't cute," he half-grinned as they reached his car, then grabbed her by the waist again, pushing her back up against the car doors and bending down to kiss her hard.

Ella was taken aback and flailed a little before gripping his shoulders, to her dismay hearing a smattering of applause from some cheeky passers-by. Flattop finished the kiss slowly and drew back, grinning, before unlocking the car door and holding it open for her. She got in hastily, her face lowered so that the people on the street would not get too good a look at her.

Flattop sauntered around to the other side and got in. Ella suddenly found herself feeling nervous again. What was going to happen now? Would it be a repeat of the night before? Did she want that?

Flattop sat in the driver seat for a moment and then reached over and placed his hand on her knee, running it up her thigh. She immediately tingled all over and her stomach tipped up, a particular longing ache beginning between her thighs. Flattop gave her thigh a little squeeze, met her eyes with his for a second, then took his hand away and started the car.

Despite her persisting feelings of conflict over what they were doing, her desire for him was far stronger. She wanted to go to bed with him again, the memories of his touch and strength igniting fire in her loins. She knew what they were doing was surely dangerous, that things were beginning to go at a faster rate than she could have prepared for, but it didn't seem to matter. Maybe the booze had just made her reckless.

Flattop started to whistle along to the radio and she was mildly surprised by how melodic and clear the whistle was. She found this unexpected aspect to him powerfully attractive and, emboldened by her tipsy state she wiggled closer to him in the seat. He glanced at her a little as she bent her head against his shoulder but did not stop whistling.

They drove without speaking for a while and Ella shut her eyes and breathed in the scent of his cologne and tobacco. Her sense of anticipation was heightening steadily and she replayed the images from the previous evening in her head, remembering the feel of his shoulders and the weight of him on her. She turned her head to him. He continued to look straight ahead, steering the car. Increasingly daring, she examined his profile openly. Flattop was not handsome but she found his peculiarity enthralling, the more so the longer she knew him. The full lips and round nose were not in themselves so unusual but combined with that unique flat cranium and he was definitely the sort who stood out.

Ella found herself staring at the top of that flat head, intrigued. His hair was parted straight down the center and combed with brylcreem so it sat smooth ontop of his flat skull but it curled at the ends.

She was overcome by the desire to touch it and, after a moment, her hand snaked upwards, fingers just twining with the curls.

Without looking away from the road, Flattop's gloved hand grasped her wrist so hard she yelped.

He lowered her arm, the strength of his grip uncompromising. She was too startled to struggle but knew it would've been pointless. He placed her hand firmly down in her lap, then gave her shoulder a rough push away from him. Her wrist smarting, Ella gazed at him, round-eyed, and he finally turned his head slowly to her.

The cold anger in his eyes made her blanch. With that exception, his face was expressionless, which made the intensity of his eyes the more intimidating. Heart suddenly pounding, Ella scooted over in the seat, a little further away from him and he turned back to the road.

She nursed her wrist in her lap as he pulled into her street and parked the car. She felt cold and miserable, as though the distance between them was a mile instead of the length of a carseat. He did not speak to or look at her as he got out and walked around to her door. He virtually pulled her from the car, then placed a hand on the small of her back and marched her up her stairs.

At the top of them, she turned to him, feeling the threat of tears hovering behind her eyes, wanting desperately to make things right.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "Will you come in?" She wanted so much for him to do so, to make things right between them in bed.

Flattop thrust his hands in the pockets of his overcoat and shrugged. "You been stickin' in my craw all night, kid," he said frankly. "Let's call it a night, hm?"

Her heart gave a lurch and she struggled to maintain composure, her disappointment and dismay flooding her fully. She resisted the urge to throw herself on him and beg him not to walk away like this - she wanted to give into that desperation but she sensed it would only disgust him.

"All right," she replied meekly, biting her lip. "As you like."

But what did this mean - would he take her out again or would this be it?

Flattop took hold of her chin in his gloved hand and looked straight down into her eyes.

"Don't be such a damn pill next time, eh?"

He let go of her roughly and walked back down the steps without another look back.


	19. Chapter 18

**EIGHTEEN**

The next day, Ella went over to Jean's for luncheon.

Jean answered the door looking tired and pale, still in her silk nightgown, but Ella barely noticed, wanting desperately to talk to the more experienced woman about her confusing outings with the gangster.

"Tell me everything," Jean said in an overly-cheery voice as she took champagne and a platter of cold cuts, cheese and pickles from the refrigerator. Ella sliced bread for them to make sandwiches as she began to tell the story to her friend. She was only a short way in when Jean frowned and stood up abruptly from the kitchen table.

"The hell with it, let's go curl up on the couches, it's loads more comfortable!"

Jean was never one to stand much on ceremony and the coziness appealed to Ella anyway. Jean lived in a wonderfully stylish art deco apartment that was beautifully decorated with a dozen lovely things Ella sorely coveted. Her living room was complete with a beautiful blue lounge suite and armchairs along with a victrola and zenith radio as well as a bookcase jammed full of records rather than books. As they set down their lunch on the coffee table, Ella noticed Jean had the heat turned right up - the weather was getting increasingly colder and Jean clearly felt it more than most.

"Come on," Jean said a little peevishly and began surprisingly to pile the couch cushions and throw pillows on the rug around the table, wrapping a throw rug around her and settling down, motioning Ella should do likewise. A little astonished by the unorthodox arrangement, Ella did as her friend indicated, feeling a little like a child again. Jean filled their champagne glasses high and raised hers in a toast.

"To we girls who would be molls," she said, a little dryly. "May we never turn stoolie."

Ella watched her friend drain her glass in one go before she began immediately to refill it, and worried.

"Are you all right, honey?" she queried carefully and Jean laughed and flapped a hand.

"I'm fine, doll baby, just fine," she said dismissively. "Was just a rough night. Come on, I want to hear all about what's going on between you and the unflappable Mr. Jones!"

Ella hesitated, wondering if she should press her friend further, but the truth was she desperately needed some guidance and insight. She had spent the evening before tossing and turning and fretting about where she stood with Flattop and felt the only person who could possibly advise her was Jean. So out poured the events of the last two nights, the previous evening at the club having been too frantic and both Jean and Ella too distracted for Ella to communicate anything other than that she had one hell of a story to tell.

Jean was not near as animated as she usually was when being the recipient of such prime gossip. She raised her eyebrows and nodded a little when Ella revealed how she had been stood up. "Happens," she shrugged resignedly and then let her lips part and gazed intently when Ella described how Flattop had arrived at her flat so sordidly late and finally started quietly laughing when Ella confessed she had let herself be talked into bed with him.

"How far you've come, Miss Priss," Jean said, leaning back against the cushions and regarded her friendly amusedly. She filled their glasses up again and raised hers in another toast. "To the willful discarding of virtue."

Ella couldn't help but blush and giggle a little, welcoming more champagne in her glass. She had expected Jean to squeal and interject with lively comments, as she would ordinarily have done, but she supposed her friend was out of sorts. She had seemed as listless and distracted the night before as well.

"So," Jean said lifting the glass to her lips and smiling smugly over the rim of it. "What was it like?"

Ella stared for a moment before she realised what her friend meant and her hand jumped up to slap over her mouth as though to stop any details pouring forth. "I couldn't say!" she gasped, scandalised and Jean finally laughed loud and hard.

"Oh come _on, _Ella, you've done the deed, might as well confess!"

Ella squirmed and blushed and had another gulp of champagne. "It was..." she ducked her head, smiling so hard in her embarrassment she thought her cheeks would crack. "... it was... very good." Her voice finished on a quiet squeak and Jean snorted, then they both burst out laughing.

"We'll work on the details," Jean said and topped up their glasses again. They had yet to make much of their meal. "All right then, what's the trouble? That can't be the whole story."

Ella shook her head, and went on to describe the blunders of the previous night. Jean cooed in sympathy over the aborted efforts at conversation and then grimaced when Ella described touching his head.

"Does he have some sort of problem with it?" Ella queried her hopelessly and Jean shrugged, gazing into her glass.

"Apparantly, from the way he reacted to you," she pointed out. "I mean, I never heard anything about it before, but... well, it's not something I would've tried to do. Well. Not so soon, anyway..." she trailed off and checked the champagne bottle. "I'll get another. Then we'll work this out."

When Jean returned with a fresh bottle, Ella impulsively drained her glass and held it out for a refill, her head now royally buzzing. Influenced by Jean's own lack of restraint, getting drunk seemed to be the appropriate response to the stress she was under.

"Why are you so worried?" Jean wanted to know. "It sounds like he was pretty clear he's going to see you again."

"What if he's changed his mind?" Ella asked miserably. "I mean, perhaps he meant it but then he went away and thought about it and decided I'm not worth the bother?"

Her emotions piqued by the champagne, tears filled her eyes and she sniffled and had another drink. Jean seemed lost in her own thoughts, staring unseeing at the platter of sandwich fixings.

"Well, maybe he has," Jean conceded slowly. "And maybe he hasn't. I don't see that you should get all worked up without knowing for sure. Oh Ella, they're all such a moody lot and I know he's damned stubborn. Lorrie's got Pruneface wrapped around her little finger and Mumbles is dizzy for any pretty skirt who stops long enough to wink at him, B.B.'s smitten with Phyllis enough to have thrown over his longtime moll - "

"Itchy just adores you," Ella threw in and Jean hesitated for just the briefest of moments.

" - I have Itchy," she agreed carefully and then sighed. "Oh but Flattop, I don't know. He just never loses his head. They're all so tough until you find the chink in the armour - or think you find it - but he's never shown a crack, that I've heard of." Ella was feeling increasingly despairing, listening to her friend. Jean lifted a dark brow and screwed her mouth to one side. "But - " she continued, "he did step out of his way to scare Freddy off for you. _And_ I'm pretty sure he's dumped Babs."

Ella's heart leapt. "Really?" she said eagerly, pleased despite the callousness it showed Babs.

Jean glanced at Ella wryly. "You didn't see the sour pusses she was shooting your way last night?"

Ella shook her head and Jean snorted into her glass. "Geeze, baby, you gotta learn to watch your back. I mean that. Lots of those dames have been gangster's molls on and off for years. They can get as rough as the men they call sweetheart."

Ella felt a twinge of unease but shrugged it off. "I'm not worried about Babs right now," she continued. "I just want to know where I stand with him. I wish he were easier to talk to." Her eyes prickled and she swallowed her upset.

Jean scooted over on the cushions and put an arm around her. "Oh honey, you just gotta make the conversation all about him," she soothed and Ella threw her hands up.

"But that's what I was doing!" she wailed and Jean clicked her tongue.

"No, you were getting all up close and personal. You gotta ask him about his suits and where he has them made, what's his car like and how fast she goes, if he likes to play the horses, how good he is at cards - things that let him show off. He's as swell-headed as any of them."

Ella sniffled again, but her tears were drying before they fell. "I think he likes music," she ventured and Jean gave her a squeeze.

"That's a good one. I wouldn't fret about it, baby doll. Really, he's paid you a whole lot of attention. He can get cuter, too. Just be patient. You have to be, with these fellows. Did you really ask him in last night?"

Ella nodded and Jean laughed, shaking her head.

"God, to think you were that blushing little girl who came in with her prim black dresses and ballerina shoes! I do like you, Ella, you really let your hair down, further than the rest of us even had to go."

"I'm not sure about any of it," Ella confessed. "I keep wondering if I'm getting in too deep."

Jean quirked a brow and shrugged, her cynicism transparent. "Maybe you were in too deep the day you took the job. I mean, it is the mob."

It was Ella who refilled their glasses this time but Jean who made another toast. "To diving in over our heads!" she said, a little desperately, and drank half her glass in one go.

Ella was sure something was wrong and reached out to take her friend's hand.

"Jean, you're not yourself," she probed gently. "Is something the matter?"

Jean laughed harshly and looked away, over at her bookcase full of records. "The matter?" she repeated. "No, no, of course not, honey. Nothing at all."

But her chin quivered and then she chewed her lower lip and Ella could see she was struggling to keep a hold of herself.

"Jeanie, darling, won't you tell me?" she entreated. "Maybe I can help?"

At that, Jean looked back at Ella, a strangled laugh coming from her throat. "Help?" she said. "Oh Ella. Ella, I'm pregnant!"

With that, she burst into despondent tears, one hand flying up to cover her face, sobbing hopelessly on the floor.

Flattop and Itchy found them at the bar that evening after the shows. Ella was nervous, on her behalf and Jean's, who was sitting there pale-faced and tense.

"Hey kid," the smile Flattop gave her was relaxed and conspiratorial, no hint of the previous night's conflict lurking. Instantly relieved, she sat up straight and smiled at him, at once willing to let it all go, so long as he were still interested in her. He bent forward and kissed her powdered cheek, further thrilling her, as Itchy grasped Jean by the waist.

"Here's my kitten," the bespectacled gangster said and kissed her hard, even as his arm twisted around to scratch at his back. Jean tried to smile but it was a pale shadow of her usually stunning grin. She had determined tearily with Ella that afternoon that she was going to inform Itchy of her circumstances that evening. She was frightened to do it, but she was at a loss as to what she was going to do about the situation and the pregnancy was beginning to show more and more. Jean's mysterious weight-gain had been explained - unfortunately the solution was not so simple as having less slices of afternoon tea cake. Itchy seemed not to notice her subdued humour, slipping an arm about her.

"Where do you fancy tonight, girls?" he asked, clearly in high spirits, fingers scrabbling behind his ears. "The Purple Crackle's gonna tear the hook off the wall, so I've been hearin'."

Jean flinched, looking as though a rowdy party would be the last thing she could bear - a very unsual state for her to be in. "Sweetie," she purred, mustering the full force of her flirtational skills in a way that Ella admired. "Couldn't you and me just go pitch the woo at your place tonight?" Jean smiled winningly at her weaselly-looking beau, running a hand up his lapel. "I've missed you so."

Itchy's grin spoke louder than words and he smugly straightened his tie with one hand. "Why sure, babe," he leered, his eyes all lit-up. "That'd be just snazzy."

Jean kissed him, close to his ear, and he sniggered and squeezed her bottom. Ella glanced away then caught her friend's eye, the silent communication passing between them: Would Jean be okay? Jean smiled softly at Ella, her head bent against Itchy's shoulder. Yes, she would be fine.

Itchy shook Flattop's hand, who only smiled quietly. "See ya, pal," Itchy grinned, then tipped the brim of his hat to Ella. "Later, doll."

The pair left arm in arm, leaving Flattop and Ella behind at the bar. Flattop watched them go, a cynical smile twisting his mouth.

"Sucker," he muttered and turned to Ella, apathetic half-lidded eyes playfully sardonic. "Don't ever try that junk on me, kid." Ella didn't know what to say, just sat on her barstool and floundered. Flattop tapped the bar for the bartender's attention, then put a hand on Ella's back, the smooth leather sensory pleasure on her bare skin. "What's she really after, hm?"

Ella started and gaped at the unexpected query. "She's not after anything!" she hastened to say, but her voice sounded high and trembled, revealing there was something amiss. She chastised herself for betraying her friend as Flattop shot her a sharp look, arms folded on the bar. He simply stared for a moment and she knew he believed she was lying and that he would not like it.

"Truly!" she promised him. "It's not what you think."

He seemed satisfied enough by that and shrugged, straightening up as the bartender delivered his whiskey.

"Well, it's their business," he said dismissively. "And Itchy's problem," he smirked. Ella coloured at his choice of words and took a long sip of her cocktail, not wanting to give anything further away, wondering if he might have guessed...

... But then she was more concerned with a memory of the previous night's unpleasant end and remembering his final words to her, she determined to be charming and agreeable.

"You look very fine tonight," she complimented him and meaning it. She thought the tux suited him well, his rough looks and quick, brutish mannerisms a stark contrast to the finery, meaning it failed to refine him - he looked strong and real, not foppish and flabby like the upper-class men in the club, similarly attired.

He cocked his head at her, smiled a little. "Thanks doll. You don't look half-bad yourself."

Ella was wearing the green silk he'd mentioned he favoured, since he hadn't seen her in it the other night and she'd hoped it might soften his attitude towards her. Just once she wished he would pay her a proper compliment - told her she was beautiful or a sight to behold - but then she saw his eyes were roving her figure slowly and freely, expression still with just the hint of an appreciative smile playing on his full lips, and felt somewhat mollified.

"I heard there was some good jazz at the Dreamland Cafe," she started saying and he lifted his eyes to her face, gaze intent. "Would you like to go?" She felt very bold suggesting a place for them to visit, but wanted to show how pleasant and fun she could be.

Flattop moved closer to her, still looking at her intently, his hand slipping around her waist and gloved fingertips resting lightly on the small of her back. Ella immediately felt the tension between them increase, taking on a crackling energy akin to static electricity. "I think I'd rather go make up for some lost time, kiddo," he said, his voice with its distinct accent a low rumble, his thumb tracing a slow path down her spine, and there was a rush of sensation inside her, pooling in the base of her loins.

Ella looked at him as he stared at her, unblinking, his expression measured but intent, and swallowed hard. "All right," she said faintly, somewhat overwhelmed by the tension and the strong feelings flooding her body. He smiled down at her, tight-lipped, something predatory glinting in his eyes as he slid his hand out from around her and took hold of her elbow, guiding her off the stool and towards the club door.


	20. Chapter 19

**NINETEEN**

Flattop lived in a large art deco block in a spacious, very modern apartment. Ella was immediately intimidated by its grandeur - her own modest abode could easily fit inside his living room alone. The colour scheme was monochromatic throughout - stark white walls with mostly black furnishing and silver accents, an occasional splash of blue. Ella followed Flattop through the foyer and into the living room, running her eyes over everything and trying to imagine him selecting out the items he wanted for his home, and failing. It just didn't seem something he would do.

In the living room he gestured that she sit down on the black leather sofa and flicked on his victrola, a very shiny and new-looking model, which immediately began piping softly with mellow jazz. Flattop dimmed the lights, the starkness of the room softening to burnished gold, the white walls reflecting the yellow light. He went to the black enamel and silver sideboard, pulling out a decanter of gin and another of dry vermouth, getting chilled glasses from inside a small black refrigerator next to the sideboard to chill the glasses. Ella felt strange and hot when she saw that refigerator, knowing there must be another, larger one in the kitchen. He lived very well indeed and she once again felt embarrassed to think that only a couple of nights prior, he had seduced her in her run-down rooms, screwing her on an old bed with sagging springs. God, what must he think?

Flattop made them both martinis and they clinked glasses. He'd made the drinks very strong and she tried not to sputter over her mouthful, nervousness returning as they sat so close to each other in the large, private room. The sounds of the city did not drift through his walls and she had no need to fear a landlady potentially listening nearby - she felt a little like they were the only two people in the world.

"You have a beautiful place," she murmured, looking about her. The carpet was white pile, a black rug with silver geometric designs positioned in its center. On top of that, there was a low, long and heavy glass coffee table, on which was a silver ash tray and a racing form. In one corner, on top of a tall black ornament stand, a white grecian statue of a naked woman stood, her long hair coiling about her, the soft golden light reflecting off her shiny nipples and stomach.

He looked around interestedly as though trying to see it through her eyes. "It ain't bad," he agreed, slipping an arm around her shoulders. "Though I prefer havin' something new to look at." With his head he indicated her, sitting on his couch, and Ella's cheeks strained with her smile. It was probably the most direct compliment he'd given her yet and set her somewhat at ease.

Flattop looked at her, half-smiling, his hand leaving her shoulder to toy with her hair. It tickled her a little, a pleasant sensation that made her skin prickle and her nipples peak. She took a large sip from her drink for a little more dutch courage and then he took the glass from her and set it aside.

He took her face in both gloved hands and kissed her softly. She returned it, tentatively at first and then growing bolder as he lengthened the kiss, then deepened it. His hands dropped from her face to her waist and he pulled her close next to him. She let her arms slide up his arms and then his shoulders, having just time to reflect that she had gone to a man's home for the express purpose of going to bed with him, before he yanked her against him, the kiss now hard and passionate, leaving her no ability but to surrender to it. Ella wrapped her arms around Flattop's neck as his hands on her back held her close, pulling her halfway onto his lap. She was being devoured in the kiss and found that she didn't mind in the slightest. The harder his mouth probed hers, the more responsive she became, returning the kiss with equal fervor, barely noticing when he shifted, a hand lifting to cup the back of her head as he lowered her down onto the sofa, covering her body with his. For her part, she lifted one leg and wrapped it around his waist, an action that seemed daringly liberal to her.

They weren't there long before he grew dissatisfied and sat up, shrugging off his coat, then the ubiquitous shoulder holster, the gun making a dull _thunk_ on the carpet as he lowered it, before fumbling with her gown, finding the zip at the side and pulling it off her. She worried for just a second that it might rip but then she remembered where they were.

"Shouldn't we move into the bedroom?" she whispered breathlessly as he pushed her back down on the sofa to yank the last of her dress off from around her ankles.

He paused for just a second, looking down at her with sharp amusement. "No," he said simply, and then grasped hold of her and pulled her up to him, sliding off the couch and onto the rug below, he still mostly dressed in his shirt, suspenders and trousers and her in just her brassiere, girdle and stockings.

Overwhelmed and awash with desire, Ella allowed herself to be tugged along with the racing tide of his lust, the illictness of it all a powerful aphrodisiac. In short order he'd tugged down her brassiere, freeing her breasts from the cups, the fingers of one hand teasing and tugging at one nipple while his mouth assaulted the other, sucking and nipping. The powerful waves of sensations crashed within her and without even realising it she was kneeling with legs astride, aching for him to touch her.

When he did, a shudder ran through her. He had not yet taken off his gloves and the feeling of the material provided a friction that delighted her. Ella could hear herself making noises, and tried to swallow them down, but then he was sweeping her off her feet and laying her back on the glass coffee table.

_The table_? she thought in dismay, it seeming beyond all depravity. She tried to sit up, but he pushed her back down, bending over to kiss her again. She didn't want to be screwed on a table, how could any decent person? But then - she supposed she wasn't decent, not anymore - and she knew Flattop wasn't. Still, it was too much to tolerate! He held her pinned by the wrists flat against the glass, ice-cold on the backs of her thighs where her stockings ended and the lower round of her buttocks before her girdle began, kissing his way down her neck and over her breasts again, sucking on her nipples in such a way that the sensation resonated elsewhere, right at that tender spot between her thighs, and she forgot her offended sensibilities, so enraptured did she become in her own pleasure.

Flattop knelt upright between her thighs, beholding her as she lay across his table, partly dressed and spread out for him, her neck arched back and her eyes tight shut. She heard the fastenings of his trousers being undone and opened her eyes, lifting her head as he grabbed hold of her hips and pulled her towards him.

It hurt a little again as he pushed inside her, despite her readiness, but the pain was over with quicker than the last time. She bit her lip as he gripped her hips hard and began to thrust into her, making her slide back and forth on the smooth glass table top. She grew shy, feeling her breasts bounce, and moved to cover them but he stopped her and slid a gloved hand over the soft white orbs. The feel of the leather was decadent and delicious and she tried not to heed the voice in the back of her mind, berating her for wantonness.

When his gloved fingers stroked the nub between her legs, the spot that had been begging to be touched, she couldn't help but cry out then slapped a hand over her mouth. In response, he rubbed her more insistently, thrust harder and she shut her eyes again and let her head fall back against the table, flooded with embarrassment but wanting desperately to achieve again the pleasure he'd brought her to the other night, not wanting him to stop even as she couldn't face him.

When she felt it building deep inside her, she experienced a sense of single-minded greed she had never known before. In that moment, she didn't care what it was going to take, not even being screwed on top of a table like some tramp - not even being a tramp, which she was beginning to feel she must be. When it finally washed through her, making her quake and tremble, absolutely consumed in the endless-but-too-brief moments of bliss, she was truly shameless, gyrating back against his pelvis, hearing herself moan.

But as the bliss subsided, her self-consciousness returned and she was gripped anew with a sense of guilt and fell silent and still. Flattop had taken hold of both her hips again and was driving forward so hard and fast her teeth rattled. It felt marvellously good even as it began to hurt a little and she peeked up at him through lowered lashes, seeing on his face an exression of low-lidded lust and intensity. She pressed her eyes shut again and wondered what a sight she must make, but then he was stiffening, groaning low and guttural, barely a sound as he reached his own climax. He panted as he finished, pulling her against him one last time before letting go of her hips and pressing his hands against the table top, his head bent forward, inhaling deeply to catch his breath.

Then he huffed a laugh, sat up straight and pulled out of her, sitting back on his haunches and refastening his trousers as she self-consciously pressed her thighs shut, sitting quickly up, fumbling to pull her bra back up.

Flattop chuckled to himself a little, slightly glazed eyes looking at a spot across the room before he snapped back into focus and looked at her, his quirked half-smile a curious blend of satisfaction and wryness.

"I need a drink," he said.

**ooo**

She asked to use the facilities while he mixed more drinks and he walked her to a door down the hall, cigarette hanging idly from his mouth, giving her bottom a light smack as he moved back to the living room.

His bathroom was very modern, of course, having the full facilities all in the one room - the bathtub, sink and commode, along with inbuilt storage. Continuing the colour scheme, the walls were tiled white and bordered in black and the floor was made up of an alternating pattern of black and white. His linen was royal blue, and connecting this with the occasional marks of colour throughout the apartment, she decided it must be his favourite.

Ella paused at the vanity to look at herself in the mirror, a little dismayed at what she saw. Her hair was in total disarray, strands falling over her face, and her lipstick was smudged quite off. Although her undergarments were all still on, they seemed askew slightly and there was a deep run in one stocking, evidently put there at some point during their liaison. She looked down, a little surprised to see her shoes were still on. It had definitely been a sordid affair and frankly, she thought she looked exactly as though she'd been doing exactly what she had been doing.

She wiped the dampness from between her thighs and glanced hesitantly at the blue and violent silk robe that hung on a stand near the door. She wanted to cover herself a little, but was not sure he would like her to wear his belongings. Besides, she didn't know what was going to happen now - perhaps he would expect her to leave.

Finally, Ella left the bathroom and went back to the living room, subconciously tugging at the bottom of her girdle to keep herself covered. He was standing by the window gazing out across the city skyline, having lifted the blinds, hands in pockets and cigarette in his mouth, tapping his foot a little to the Fats Waller record playing on the victrola.

"Get comfortable," he said over his shoulder. "Kick your shoes off."

Ella was glad he wasn't sending her home straight away and did as he said. He'd left a drink on the coffee table for her and she sipped it, again grimacing at its strength, sitting on the couch bent at the waist to cover herself a little. Flattop finished his cigarette, went over to a drawer in a side table and withdrew a small leather case.

"Want some nose candy?" he offered, sitting beside her, and ignorant, she just blinked at him. He caught her surprised look and snickered as he opened the case, laying a variety of instruments on the coffee table: a small mirror, a gold razor, a small gold tube and a tiny jar with a gold screw lid containing a white powder.

Cocaine! Of course she had heard about cocaine, but never, in all her life, had she been near the stuff - nor had she ever wanted to be! She shifted uncomfortably on the sofa as he tipped some of the powder onto the mirror.

"No thank you," she said meekly and he flickered his eyes over to her, still the faintest smirk on his pursed lips.

"Smarter to steer clear," he agreed, using the razor to chop the powder finer. "I only use sparingly. Seen too many snow-birds go to pieces over the junk. Mugs what can't control themselves. Palookas."

Flattop divided the powder into four thin lines, then picked up the small tube, bent over the table and inhaled two lines quickly, one in each nostril. He sat up, sniffed hard and blinked, twitched his head to one side and then a small grin of pleasure spread up his cherubic cheeks. He held the tube out to Ella.

"Sure you don't wanna try some?" he invited, his mean eyes slightly mocking.

Ella shook her head firmly and he shrugged and snorted the remaining two lines. He discarded the tube onto the tray then slid over the sofa close to her, making her more aware he remained fully clothed while she was in only her lingerie. He tucked one arm beneath her knees, lifting her legs so they lay across his lap, then fingered the run in her stocking with a little chuckle.

"You are one cute little trick," he informed her, the pupils of his eyes dilating. "Why'd things end with your last fella?"

Ella coloured at the personal nature of the question but considering all the intimacy she'd had with this man by that point, there seemed no reason to hold back.

"We grew apart," she said simply. "The Depression made him too nervous. He kept wanting to change the date of the wedding, but he got jumpy too. In the end, he seemed just - " she hesitated, trying to find the words.

"Weak," Flattop finished for her. Even after all this time, she didn't want to think cruelly of Harry but eventually she nodded. Flattop examined her face intently, his eyes flickering over her features, the only movement in his still, ever-composed countenance, his cupid's lips just slightly parted.

"Who finished it?" he wanted to know.

"I did," Ella said and then said, after a moment's thought: "But I think he provoked me into it. I think he was too - too cowardly to do it himself."

Flattop nodded sagely. "Was he your first?" She was almost growing used to his bluntness but still squirmed a little beneath the question.

"Yes," she said quietly. "I really did think we would be married."

Flattop tilted his head back, looking at her assessingly from his hooded eyes.

"You from the West Coast, right?" His hand run up and down her stockinged shin and she realised for the first time he'd removed his gloves while she was in the bathroom. She nodded and he chuckled a little.

"All that way for a pansy-ass milksop. Then what happened? You figure you'd stay and make a way for yourself? Why'd you screw Lightfoot anyway? Were you that hard up?"

She shifted uncomfortably on the leather, not liking the line of enquiry and unsure how to deflect it.

"I was," she said shortly, a note of sullenness sneaking into her voice. "Why did you all talk about it?"

Flattop smirked, unperturbed. "Lightfoot likes to make he's one of the crew, tries to be chummy talkin' about the chorus girls he's made with. We listen, cos it makes for good news, but he's just some fancy-boy hoofer trying to play big leagues. Your name came up because you sure made a helluva impression that first day, standin' there in that silly outfit bein' cussed out by Big Boy," he finished with a burst of laughter at the memory and Ella was humiliated, moving to pull her legs away from his lap. Flattop laughed more, possibly the longest show of expression she'd seen him make, grasped her by the ankles and pulled her to him again, scooping an arm beneath her knees and another around her back, lifting her up like she was weightless as he stood.

"You're too sensitive, kid," he grinned. "We were talkin' bout what a fine pair of pins ya had and how cute you blushed. Come on, I'll give you a tour of the bedroom."

**ooo**

Flattop screwed her twice more that night and each time she enjoyed it more than she could've expected and grew a little more comfortable, a little more at ease with him, only for him to ridicule or taunt her in some way and so drive her back to being shy and self-conscious. He chuckled at her pouts, pinching her cheeks and swatting her bottom, tugging and pulling at her body as though she were just a doll he could manipulate as he liked. He was no gentlemen indeed but he kept making her drinks and got her a robe to wear when he'd finally stripped the last of her clothing off, himself swanning around in his boxer shorts.

Ella had never made love so many times in one evening and was surprised at the responsiveness of her body, which was more willing than her bashful and slightly guilt-stricken mind to be reawoken each time, even as it grew tired and sore.

She also found that, ill-mannered or not, she couldn't help but respond to his swaggering self-confidence and brutish machismo. It appealed to her in a vexing sort of way, that he was so unconcerned with what she - or anyone else - thought, so impassive and composed at all times as though being utterly sure of himself was the difference between success and ruin. Flattop was rough and brusque, but he was not odious or whiny like Freddy nor was he nervous and indecisive like Harry and it was a welcome relief.

By the time she remembered Jean's predicament and how _that_ had been caused, they had finished for the third time and it was too late. He noted the sudden anxiety on her face and snorted, pouring himself straight gin.

"You're loosenin' up whether you like it or not, kiddo," he said round the cigar he clamped between his teeth. "Might as well quit tryin' to fight it."

She let him think what he liked, not sure how to broach the subject with him and guessing it wasn't one he'd care to discuss anyway.

**ooo**

_To those darling loyal readers who continue to stay with me on this fiction: THANK YOU! I actually have several more chapters already finished, just not a lot of time to upload them in! This story is going to be a long one, so strap yourselves in._

_I hate to beg, but reviews are always welcome fuel to stoke the creative fire. I know some of you are probably waiting until the end before you review, but I would so much appreciate hearing what you think of the story so far and remember I always welcome concrit! 3_

_Thanks again, hope you are enjoying it!_


	21. Chapter 20

**TWENTY**

Ella woke the next day in a tangle of silk sheets, late morning sun winking through the shades at her where she lay on Flattop's bed, having passed out there sometime in the late hours. She blinked, confused at first, before the night's events came rushing back to her and she floundered in the bed, rolling over to find herself alone. Vague memories came back in snatches: the dim glow of the bedroom as Flattop read the paper next to her while she drifted off; later the heat of his body close to hers in the darkness as he slept, one arm draped over her waist and another under his pillow, on the .45 he kept there, cautious as opposed to nervous; half-waking at dawn to curiously find him executing push-ups on the floor next to the bed and then a little later, the sound of running water in the nearby bathroom. It had darted across her mind then that she should get up, but her head was too heavy and she'd laid it back down, returning to sleep.

Ella was wide-awake then and kicked back the sheets to find herself naked. Her body was very sore after the night's activities and she winced as she found Flattop's borrowed robe on the floor by the bed. Slipping it over her shoulders, she ducked quietly out of the bedroom, a little uncertain.

She found Flattop in the kitchen, dressed in his slacks, shirt and suspenders, gun holster with weapon secured already on, chomping on a piece of toast.

"Hey kid," he said around a mouthful. "The maid's been in, I had her make you some breakfast." He gestured with an incline of his chin towards the oven. "There's some coffee too. Have some."

Ella smiled a little tightly, feeling a bit shy around him, increased rather than eased by his easy familiarity.

"I guess I look like I need it," she said self-consciously, touching a hand over her tangled hair.

He grinned at her and swilled his coffee. "You look like you've been properly fucked." Ella blanched at the curse, moving quickly to the coffee pot. "It suits you," he finished and patted her bottom as he deposited his plate and mug in the sink.

The maid had made her scrambled eggs and real bacon, a very rare treat in the hardened times. "And don't worry," Flattop had thrown at her cockily. "Ain't the first time she's fixed for two here."

The pointed jab - at both her prudishness and his philandering ways - soured her appetite somewhat but the bacon was too precious to shun.

Flattop checked his watch and clicked at her with his tongue. "Come on, kiddo, get a wiggle on. Go get yourself a shower."

"What's the time?" she queried, still a little groggy, padding down the hall towards the bathroom.  
"Past ten," he called out and she gasped, lurching hastily into the bathroom.

"Rehearsals began at ten!" she cried out in a panicked voice. "Oh gosh, I'm so late!"

She heard him snort distantly. "Don't sweat it. I gotta be in by twelve. We can swing by yours to get you a change of clothes."

_Oh god, Mrs Brooks! _ Ella started the shower up, standing there in the borrowed robe, her panic increasing. Late to rehearsals at her precious job, risking discovery of her indiscretion by her landlady - it went to show, if a girl wanted to make her bed, she had to lie in it well!

Ella stole into her apartment in her stockinged feet while Flattop kept the sedan idling out the front and somehow went undiscovered by Mrs Brooks. She changed quickly and five minutes later flew back out the front door and into the waiting car, one hurdle jumped but another - significantly more serious - yet to go. Flattop threw her an irritated look as she sat, tense and wound up, on the seat next to him.

"Geeze, Ella, lighten up," he clipped. "Ya ain't on your way to the hot-seat." Impressing further upon Ella that he simply didn't - couldn't - understand what a steady job meant to someone like her.

Flattop did not trouble himself to move quickly when they arrived at the Club Ritz although she was clearly in a state of heightened anxiety. She wrung her hands as she waited for him to saunter around to her door and let her out, then he put a heavy arm around her shoulders, walking her slowly in the front door, her trembling with tension beside him. She couldn't escape the feeling it was deliberate but pondered what in the world his motive could be.

As they entered the club, Ella could see rehearsals were well underway, Lightfoot directing the girls with shouts and bellows, clearly in a foul mood. They changed the show every six weeks and were working on a new one right then - increasingly complicated, as per Big Boy's demands.

Hearing them at the curtained door, Lightfoot whirled around, his eyes bulging in his skinny face. "Miss Priss!" he bellowed, "ya got some nerve waltzin' in here at this hour like the Queen of Sheba! Just where do you get off - " Lightfoot's voice abruptly trailed off when he saw Flattop at Ella's elbow, the gangster's expression impervious but direct.

Lightfoot stammered over his words as he comprehended the situation and Ella watched, fascinated, as the wind was taken entirely from his sails. "Er, uh - that is - well, we all get delayed sometimes. Just come on up when you're ready, honey."

Flattop cocked his brow just a little, unimpressed and saying nothing to the lean choreographer, instead just turning to Ella and patting her cheek with one gloved hand.

"See you tonight, doll," he said and she smiled brightly at him, thoroughly grateful he had not allowed her to get into trouble and wonderfully impressed at the powerful effect he'd had on Lightfoot. Flattop strolled off towards the stairs at the back of the club and Ella watched him go, suddenly feeling an unexpected rush of power - that provoked an intense flood of affection for the flat-headed crook.

On stage, Lightfoot was muttering at the girls to get back into their places; the girls for their part were all staring at Ella and whispering furiously amongst each other, thrilled by this sudden turn-up of events. Unable to help grinning to herself, she made her way around the tables towards the dressing room, moving briskly though now without fear.

"I'll be just a moment, Slim," she called out to her Boss.

Lightfoot tipped his hat up on his head and gave her a rather strained smile. "Just take your time, honey," he replied.

When rehearsals were done, Ella met up with Jean and they went out for tea before they were due back at the club for the evening's performances. They went to a quiet cafe that had secluded booths with high partitions and Jean, who had been pale and quiet all throughout rehearsal, twisted a hanky in her hands and chewed her lower lip as Ella ordered for them.

No sooner had the waitress moved on, than tears began spilling down Jean's cheeks.

"Oh Ella, he was so _angry_," she whispered, hiccoughing. "He blamed _me_, can you believe it?"

Ella grasped her friend's hand over the table and squeezed it. "Oh gosh, did he dump you honey?" The thought of being alone and with child was mind-numbingly horrible to Ella.

Jean sniffled. "No. But he scared me, he was so mad. He calmed down when I started crying though, but he was still cold. I tried to hold back, but I just couldn't."

Ella felt a sympathetic ache for her friend. "What are you going to do?"

Jean lifted the hanky to her eyes and wiped them. "He gave me money - " at that moment the waitress appeared with their coffees and Jean bit her lip and looked at the framed photos on the wall until the waitress moved on again, then lowered her voice and continued: " - he gave me money to get it... taken care of."

Ella understood immediately what she meant, and paled. Abortions were illegal and unsafe. Jean would be risking her freedom and her life.

"Oh Jeanie," Ella whispered, feeling on the verge of tears herself. "Is there no other way?"

Jean shook her head, fresh tears filling her eyes. "He said it was either this or I would be on my own. I don't have a choice."

In silence the two women drank their coffee, Jean's hands trembling as she lifted her cup.

That night Jean drank heavily inbetween shows and when they were finished wanted to go home immediately, her despondent and withdrawn state drawing curious stares from the other girls.

Ella walked her out to get a cab and, having ascertained neither Flattop, Itchy or Mumbles were anywhere to be seen in the club, went home with her friend, too wrapped up in Jean's distress to be overly put-out at being stood up again.

At Jean's, they made Pink Ladies and Ella promised to go to the doctor Itchy had recommended to Jean with her. Jean was horribly frightened at the prospect of the abortion and spent the evening in fits of tears. Beholding her usually cheerful and lively friend in such a state was a rude shock to Ella, whose stomach began to twist in knots of anxiety over her own carelessness. Itchell Oliver was a great deal more effusive than Flattop Jones and had seemed truly affectionate towards Jean - if he had reacted so badly to Jean's predicament, then how might the hoodlum with the head as a flat as an anvil and eyes as cold as coins respond to similar news?

Ella didn't like to think of it and held her friend tight as they both fell into fitful sleeps.

The next day, Flattop cornered her up in one of the back corridors of the club as she returned from the bathroom.

"Where did you get to last night?" he queried her as imperturbably as ever - though his eyes wee cold and flinty, expression hard, his hands jammed casually in his pockets but hulking over her in a way that seemed just vaguely threatening.

She looked up at him, too surprised to be afraid, merely confused. "You weren't here - I thought you had business - "

"You weren't at home," he interrupted her brusquely, sounding as though he suspected her of some deception. "If you can call that dump a home."

Ella floundered; it had never occured to her he might come by her place again as he had done that first aborted date. She thought of him standing in her hallway, waiting for the door to be answered, and not very much liking when it wasn't. He would've felt a fool and Ella realised in one great rush of apprehension that doing that to him could be very dangerous.

"I went home with Jean," she explained, stammering a little and hoping it didn't make her sound like a liar. "She - she needed someone around - "

Flattop tilted his head back and surveyed her from hooded eyes as though assessing the honesty of her words. After a moment, he gave a single nod. "Itchy told me she's in trouble," he said and a hint of a smile passed over his features before his expressioned hardened again. "Make sure you don't get into the same sort, kid," he instructed her, his voice sharp. "And don't forget - " he took a step towards her, backing her against the wall, an irritated glower darkening his brow as he lifted a hand and jabbed a finger hard into her shoulder. "I'm _your_ business now. Don't go running off at night without makin' sure I know where you'll be. I won't have none of my time wasted by some broad. Got it?"

Ella was offended at being called a broad and angered by his demands - how was she supposed to give him messages when he wasn't there? When he wouldn't give her the same courtesy? For that matter, how was she supposed to prevent a pregnancy when he made all the decisions concerning their trysts? - but she knew arguing with him would be pointless and even possibly anger him and that was a risk she was not willing to take. It was intimidating enough just having his finger jabbing into her, quaking in his shadow. However she couldn't keep all the frustration from her expression as she nodded sulkily and he half-grinned and chucked her on the chin.

"Stubborn little twist, ain'tcha?" he chuckled, her pout seeming to dissipate his irritation rather than increase it. "You can think all the dirty thoughts you like, just so long as you mind me, kiddo. And we'll have fun. Now. I'll see you tonight." He bent down and kissed her softly on the lips, and she melted despite herself. She then watched him walk away with a tingle on her skin and her heart thudding hard.

She was already in trouble, no doubt about it.

Backstage, Ella was teased and grilled by the other girls over her new affair. Dolores toasted her and Phyllis wanted to know where they had gone, what they had eaten, what they had drunk, whose house they had ended up at and what his place was like. She realised, amongst the hubbub, that they had finally truly accepted her. Even though they had noted her relaxing attitudes, had become friendlier when she mingled with the gangsters as they did, for so long as she was playing the chaste good girl, they saw her as different - outside of them. Now she was properly one of them. _A tramp_, a mean and self-conscious voice whispered spontaneously at the back of her mind, but she pushed it away.

She kept tight with the details, making the girls more curious in their frustration, but she had to keep some things sacred for herself now that the whole world seemed to know what she was doing and who with.

That evening she waited by the bar for Flattop for an hour and when it became apparent he was out on business, she went home, changed into her prettiest nightdress, removed her makeup and then reapplied just a little powder, lipstick and mascara. She sat up with a book, at first excited and wound up, unable to concentrate on her reading, turning her head often to the window to listen for his sedan, but gradually growing more intent in the story and then finally beginning to succumb to exhaustion, her head drooping forward only to snap back, over and over again.

After three hours she went to bed, more than a little dejected and confused.

**ooo**

_WOW, I am so sorry I forgot to update this! I don't want you few readers to lose interest! It was totally accidental. I have heaps of chapters already written and will definitely remember to update this story more often! Thanks for continuing to read and please do review!_


	22. Chapter 21

**TWENTY ONE**

The next day she went with Jean, both of them overtired and anxious, to the back alley doctor whose name had been given to Itchy by Texie Garcia. Apparently, she sent all her girls there if they got into trouble and he was as accomplished as could be found at what they needed him to do.

The doctor was located in a rather ramshackle building in a nasty part of town, the streets cramped up and running over each other, the houses and building crumbling before their very eyes, all of it covered with filth and debris. Nervously, they got off the bus, huddling in their dark coats as inconspicuously as possible, casting edgy glances at the shabby and occasionally shady looking people who populated this part of the city.

Jean gripped Ella's hand tight when they reached the door they were looking for: once possibly red, it was not a faded and unappealing brown, the paint cracked and chipped in jagged sections across its surface. The number - eighty-six - was painted on it in peeling white. It was set into a scabbed brick wall with high-up windows, broken glass behind thick bars. Not in the least an appealing sight and Ella felt a wave of sick pity for her friend.

However, once they were inside, the environment abruptly changed. They were let in by a elderly and clean looking nurse who stared at them dispassionately for a moment while Ella gave their names. The nurse showed them into a small waiting room and went to fetch the doctor. The interior of the building was quite pristine; fresh cream paint on the walls, polished floors and comfortable sofas in the waiting room with potted plants providing a peaceful ambience. The cleanliness was in marked contrast to the crumbling facade outside and had Ella looking about her in wonder. Jean was clenching Ella's hand so tightly it was growing numb, not seeming to notice how immaculate the place was.

A moment later and the door opened and in walked a short, squat man with a face like a sprouting potato, complete with bushy moustache. A spotless white coat was on over his pinstrip suit and his eyes were like small black beans in his lumpy face.

"Miss Edwards?" he said in a surprisingly soft voice, thick with a German accent. Trembling, still clutching Ella's hand, Jean stood up. "Are you aware of the fees?" Jean fumbled in her purse with quaking fingers and finally withdrew a small, crumpled envelope, holding it out to the man who took it, made a quick count of the bills inside and then nodded to her. "Won't you follow me, Miss?"

Ella moved to stand and follow as Jean cast her a desperate look, but the doctor held out a hand, shaking his head gently.

"It's better if you wait out here, Miss. It's no sight for a young lady. Additionally, I need to concentrate."

Jean turned frantically to Ella and began to sputter, her face contorting in fear. Ella took a deep breath and kept hold of herself for her friend's sake.

"It's all right, doll," she tried to soothe. "The doctor will take care of you and I'll be out here the whole time, just waiting for you. Don't you worry, honey, they know what they're doing here."

Biting down hard on her lip, Jean nodded tightly, clearly not trusting herself to speak, then reluctantly let go of Ella's hand. The nurse came forward, still with the same neutral expression and took gentle but firm hold of Jean's shoulders, leading her away.

Ella watched them go with a terrible fear clutching her heart but forced a brave smile on her face when Jean glanced back at her, tears shimmering in her eyes.

"Don't leave without me, Ella!" Jean cried out, a note of panic in her voice which the nurse shushed.

"I'll be right here," Ella promised, hating the wretched nurse for not being kinder.

Then they shut the door behind them and Ella found herself alone in the sterile room, no company but the sound of a ticking clock.

She fretted as she waited, her mind darting constantly from what was going on behind that shut door to her confusing predicament with Flattop, to the anxious memory of their love-making and what may be taking place in her own body at that very second.

Eventually she settled on ponderings of her lonely night as being the least distressing thing to muse about in that empty waiting room and began to pick and tear apart the series of events, from their strange encounter in the corridors of the Ritz to her painful late-night wait. She was quite hurt about having been doubly stood-up the night before but was obviously not going to discuss it with Jean when her friend had greater things burdening her mind. Without any way of getting in touch with the flat-headed hoodlum other than through the club, she knew she could do nothing more than wait until next she saw him there - but the idea was agony. She wanted to see him right then, immediately, find out if he still had eyes for her, have him kiss her and take her out on his arm, rude, brutish manner and all. It didn't matter if he barely spoke to her or only to poke fun at her - just being there beside her indicated he wanted her around. The longing for it made her sick, yet she seemed helpless to the impulse, convinced the only real cure was to be in his arms again. It was a horribly compromising position, making her feel weak and needy - it seemed no matter what she tried to do, she was to remain under the thumb of this strange, dangerous man.

An hour or more went by before the door finally clicked open and the doctor ushered out an ashen and groggy looking Jean, who clutched her stomach with one hand and inched along the floor as though a regular stride would cause discomfort.

The doctor patted Jean distantly on the shoulder and addressed Ella:

"Now, there's to be no strenuous activity for at least a week," he said in his soft, accented voice. Ella nodded - at Jean's pleading, Itchy had arranged with Lightfoot for her to have the next week off. "And she is to keep still as much as possible for the next twenty-four hours. If bleeding begins, get her to a hospital immediately." Ella blanched at those words, but Jean barely reacted, seeming locked in her own world. "Obviously there should not be any sexual activity during this time either. Mark my words, young lady, this is all very important. The procedure was successful in its intended purpose but it could all go very bad without care. Now, I don't advise you ladies take the bus home, far too jarring. We have a cab service, for a small additional fee."

Ella's felt her eyes narrow and her heart harden at those words, but she delved into her own purse and came up with the fee the doctor named. He stepped back to the door and spoke to the nurse within who came out and made a call from a small red phone that had been hidden behind a potted fern. The doctor nodded to Ella and Jean and moved to walk away when, on impulse, Ella called out to him.

"Wait! I - "

The doctor turned, one bushy eyebrow raised queryingly. Ella hesitated, then continued:

"What - what could one do, to prevent such a thing happening again?"

Ella saw Jean home and was settling her into bed with hot tea and soup when there was a knock at the door.

Frowning in curiosity, Ella went to answer it and found, much to her surprise, an ever-so-slightly-contrite looking Itchy standing there, hat in one hand, the other scratching at his stomach, for once subdued and quiet.

"Hey doll, Flattop's out in the car," he muttered as he pushed past her. "He says you should go out."

Bristling with impotent rage at the presumptuousness and insensitivity of both crooks, Ella first followed Itchy irritably as he made his way to Jean's bedroom, to first ensure her friend would accept her leaving but also sorely tempted to give the purse-lipped gangster a piece of her mind.

But she stopped short as Itchy entered the bedroom and Jean looked up and caught sight of him, her despondent, broken expression altering suddenly into an ecstatic smile. Ella hovered silently by the door as Itchy dropped his hat on the dresser then sat down on the bed, covering one of Jean's hands with his own, seeing how her friend became reanimated by his presence as they softly began speaking. So she turned and left.

Flattop was lounging against the side of the car, languidly smoking a cigarette when Ella left the building, staring down the street away from her, seeming to watch the foot traffic with a hard and vague curiosity. She felt a twist of conflicting emotion upon sight of him - fear in memory of what they had done, relief that he had wanted her sent out to him as well as the desire to slap him for his callousness and finally, and worst of all, the longing to go to him and be held and comforted. Jean would not disclose the details of what had happened to her behind that closed door of the doctor's office and she hadn't wanted to probe her but she could imagine from Jean's pale-faced stare that it had not been pleasant, and was frightened by it.

He didn't turn to acknowledge her until she was right in front of him. His hooded eyes sidled over her dispassionately and she stood there, staring up at him from wide eyes, foolishly hoping for some sign of affection.

But he just pushed himself off the car and opened the door for her. "C'mon, kid, get in," he said.

Ella's jaw began to wobble but she held his eyes for a moment in a small gesture of defiance and was rewarded with the slight questioning of a flickered eyebrow. Then she got into the car and breathed deeply while setting her jaw to gain control of her emotions as he moved around to the other side.

Flattop didn't query her about Jean and Ella felt a hopeless wave of hurt anger as they pulled away into the street.

"Where are we going?" she asked after a few moments of the radio, when she could trust herself to speak without crying or shouting.

He took a sharp corner, not looking at her. "The Club," he said around the cigarette between his puckered lips. "Figured you could use the ride."

She swallowed around the lump in her throat. "Thank you."

"Eh, no sweat," he said disinterestedly and for a few moments more it was just the radio. Inwardly, Ella agonised over the whole situation, the noise in her head gradually thinning to just one query that seemed to hold the answer to everything in her distressed state.

"Where were you last night?" she queried finally.

He glanced at her and she thought she saw him smile quickly. "Got caught up with the boys and a deck of cards after business. By the time we were done, it was past five. And I didn't feel like it."

She remained unsatisfied by the answer. After all, it was he who had said he'd see her that night - business she understood, but a card game? Didn't her time mean anything to him?

"Hope you didn't wait up for me," he continued in a studiously nonchalant manner and, not missing the note of amusement to it, realised suddenly he'd done it on purpose - probably to punish her for being with Jean that night he'd come looking for her.

For a moment, it was too much - on top of the horrors she'd accompanied Jean on that morning, the trauma and stress of watching her best friend have an abortion whilst knowing she had been similarly careless herself mere days ago, his casual cruelty pushed her to breaking point. She felt the overwhelming urge to throw herself at him and scream, beat at him with her fists, sob her very heart out.

But then Ella felt a strange coolness wash over her. It was as though it finally all caught up to her - the trauma of her mission with Jean, the nerve-wracking affair with the gangster, not to mention the year and a half of hardness she had experienced - and it made her realise the capacity for strength she held within her. She contemplated lying, briefly, by demurring that she had not waited but passed that idea on and settled for the truth.

"I did wait up," she said, her voice calm. "Though not so late as five. And you've made your point now."

After all, why skirt around the plain truth? She was tired of the games.

Flattop chuckled, a raspy and mean little sound, throwing her a sidewards glance through his lidded eyes. "Damn, kid, I like you," he said, to Ella's great surprise. She flushed pink and tried not to look pleased as he continued to drive.

When they got to the Club Ritz, Mumbles was waiting for them, opening the door for Ella as Flattop remained in his seat. She looked at him questioningly and he offered a little shrug of the shoulders. "Business," he said simply and she reluctantly took Mumbles' hand and got out, giving the mush-mouthed hoodlum a little smile.

"Wrsishy?" Mumbles said as he got into the car and she overheard Flattop reply derisively: "Itchy's useless right now. Dizzy for a goddamn dame", and her pleasure at his earlier words was dissipated.

But as she headed to the Club's front door, he called out after her: "Dinner after the shows, doll."

And though she knew she was a fool, her step grew lighter.

**ooo**

_Who sucks? I suck. Yeah, I haven't had time to work on this fic at all and it's killing me. I really want to get it finished. PLEASE stick with me and let me know if you're still enjoying it by leaving a review! I'd appreciate it SO much! 3_


	23. Chapter 22

**TWENTY-TWO**

He took her to the Purple Crackle, a glamorous nightspot with walls painted a decadent deep aubergine with the faintest gold sheen, cushioned booths in velvet mauve and small, deep set lanterns that barely illuminated the place. Even the overhead chandeliers were dimmed right down and the overall effect was of a mysterious cave, twinkling with hidden jewels.

A jazz band played an agonisingly slow and sensual melody in the corner stage, set between drapes of rich plum, while silhouetted couples danced close on the dancefloor. Ella felt herself growing warm and giddy as she listened to the seductive drawl of the tenor saxophone and watched the swaying bodies, prickling with awareness of the tall, broad-shouldered figure at her side, whose arm hers was tucked into. Flattop looked calm and relaxed that night - not that this was unusual for him as his manner was customarily cool - but there was a particular languidness about him that made her feel strangely at ease.

He touched a gloved hand to her bottom as he handed her coat to the coat check and she felt a little quiver in the pit of her stomach, at the same time anxiously glancing around to make sure no one else had seen.

Flattop had steak again and ordered veal cordon bleu for Ella, who had again never tried the rich and expensive dish before. For a moment she wanted to make a remark about how if only herself of a year earlier could see where she was now - but then thought it would make her sound childish and was silent. Wanting badly to talk to the man at her side, she recalled Jean's words about flattery and fumbled:

"Freddy Washington hasn't bothered me again," she blurted and Flattop shot her a mildly incredulous look from the corner of his eyes.

"Course he hasn't," he said, a little sneer on his full lip and she realised there hadn't been a shred of doubt in his mind that once he had spoken to the rich kid that the matter was closed. Slightly derailed, she attempted to continue nonetheless:

"Haven't even seen him in the Club again," she tried conversationally.

Flattop's sneer heightened. "What a wimp," he said disinterestedly, gazing across at the band.

Ella looked back down at her plate and picked at the tender meat with her fork, wondering why it wasn't getting easier to talk to this indifferent and callous crook. "Well, thanks again, anyway, I was rather nerve-wracked there for a while" she tried to force gaily and he finally slid his eyes over to her.

"Ya worried still?" he queried, a note of curiosity in his tone, then shifted in his seat as though to face her more directly . Automatically, she moved to dismiss the matter with an earnest "Oh no, no, not at all!" before realising that thinking she might had actually stirred some interest in him and she could've played it out a little. But her reassurance had him again redirecting his apathetic attention elsewhere and, cursing herself, she went back to her meal, picking at the scraps though she was quite full.

Flattop leaned back against the cushioned booth, lidded eyes narrowing to mere slits, listening to the heady jazz with a slightly nodding head. She noticed and watched him, quite entranced by his obvious enjoyment of the music, it provoking the desire to reach out and touch his hand.

He turned his head to her, one side of his full lips lifting in a little smile. "Dance, kid?"

Ella was surprised. She hadn't figured him for a dancer, but then again - the melody was so slow and languorous that those on the dance floor weren't doing much but shuffling in time, arms about each other. She smiled and nodded even as her heartbeat sped up at the anticipation of being so close to him.

They moved out onto the dance floor and took their place amongst the idling couples there, he drawing her immediately closer than she was used to in such situations, a hand on the small of her back pressing her against him, his other holding hers tight. She rested her free hand on his shoulder, admiring its wideness. Though not conventionally attractive - even ugly - Flattop had as solid and tall a figure as could be desired in a man. Many of his compatriots approximated his height with a handful coming in shorter and only the skull-faced creep Influence being taller, but what took Ella's eye especially was the broad shoulders he bore and a memory of being shadowed beneath them as he'd screwed her made her blush.

She was not surprised they simply joined in the swaying of the other couples, who seemed to desire more the intimacy the slow music afforded them than the opportunity to show off any dance skills. Pressed so close against him, she could feel the hard outline of his gun in its holster beneath the breast of his jacket and soon, with rising alarm, a similar hardness in his trousers, pressing against her hips. His fingertips ran down the length of her spine, stopping just before where her buttocks clefted beneath her dress. The sensation was lovely yet she was unnerved by its intimacy in so public a place - the combination was delicious and without quite meaning to she pressed her hips closer against his, an action that was responded to by the firm press of his palm against her back, encouraging her closeness. Unsure how to react, she simply laid her cheek against his chest and comforted herself in the knowledge of the darkness of the club.

A moment later she felt his lips brush the top of her head and she shivered and shut her eyes, simply trusting him to lead her around the floor. He dropped her hand and put his other arm around her, pressing them tightly together and she slid her hand up his arm and around his neck to join her other which had fast moved there as their intimacy grew. She kept her eyes tight shut so as not to see if anyone had noticed how indiscreet they had become. Inside her rib cage, her heart was thudding with heavy excitement, the beat of it echoing in her ears, almost drowning out the seductive melody of the music. Flattop's lips moved down to her hairline, tickling her forehead, and she could feel herself grow warm and moist between the thighs.

Flattop exhaled deeply then leant back, his hands moving to grip her arms, their sudden separation leaving her a little bewildered.

"Come on, kid, let's get outta here," he growled, one arm then tucked tight around her waist.

**oo**

He opened the door of his apartment for her and as soon as she stepped past him he was tugging her coat off, pressing hot kisses to her shoulders and neck, his hands running up her stomach and over her breasts in her beaded dress. Piqued, she found the process of being quickly stripped, her gradually bared body marked with greedy kisses, further arousing and she did not resist at all when he pushed her againt the wall of his foyer, unfastened his trousers and lifted her onto him. She was slick and ready and felt only pleasure when he slid in and clung to his neck tightly as he ground her hard against the wallpaper, smothering her fiercely in kisses. The only discomfort was the unyielding press of the gun beneath his coat, grinding hard into her breast, but in that heated moment, her head full of wine and her body stimulated to distraction, it merely added to her excitement. His desire for her was more heady than champagne and she was quickly drunk on it, her ankles hooked at the small of his back, her own hips thrusting forward in response to his. Flattop bit and sucked at her neck, his hands cupping her bottom, holding her up for him and she adored the feeling of being cradled, knowing he was strong enough to support her in this way.

Flattop groaned and shuddered against her, teeth nipping harder into her neck before he stilled and then lowered her onto her feet, pulling himself free of her body. He laughed when her knees wobbled and steadied her by gripping her elbows then spun her around and swatted her bottom to send her scurrying further into the apartment, a little self-conscious in her nakedness - but not as much as on previous occasions.

"Go into the bedroom," he ordered her, hanging up their coats and she did as she was told - though first detouring in the bathroom to check that the sponge she'd secured inside herself was still in place. Soaked in vinegar, the abortionist doctor had recommended it as a contraceptive if she could not induce her partner to wear a condom. Ella had considered Flattop's disposition and had decided not to even bother broaching the subject with him.

All was well and after cleaning herself up, Ella scurried into the bedroom, securing herself beneath the covers of the king-size bed, as Flattop entered, a bottle of red wine and two glasses with him.

"Got a little hot under the collar, sweet pea," he said blandly, offering her a glass which she took and sipped, gazing up at him wide eyed as he begun to tug off his own clothing. "Don't really like to leave a dame itchin'."

Now Ella did feel shy again, demurely lowering her eyes as she sipped again from her glass. She wanted to say that she'd enjoyed it regardless but felt too foolish, and then he was naked himself and she was trying not to stare, and failing.

Flattop whisked back the covers and climbed onto the bed beside her, hovering his body over her own, taking the glass from her hands and setting it on the bedside table before taking her by the hips and dragging her along the bed so that she was lying flat, settling himself between her legs. Thrilled and unknowing what to expect, she gasped when he kissed his way down her body, then became increasingly nervous as his mouth moved over her stomach... then her hips... before his hands were firmly pushing her thighs wider. Ella froze, her body completely stiff as he dipped his head between her legs, horrified by his intentions, then unable to reconcile that recoiling with the utterly pleasurable sensations his tongue was giving her. Afraid to move but unwilling to surrender she gazed down at the top of his uniquely flat head between her thighs, not comprehending his actions - such a thing was totally foreign to her, she'd never even imagined it. She chewed her lip in a fit of confliction, squeezing her eyes tight shut as he continued to pleasure her, her body overcoming her mind's reluctance as it increasingly responded to the distinct ecstasy of what he was doing.

Finally, it reached the point where she ceased to care, where her whole body and mind became focused on a single objective; the ultimate climax of this bliss.

When it came, it was far superior to what she'd experienced before and her reaction to it was instinctive and automatic: she arched her back up, gripped a fistful of Flattop's hair and cried out - loudly.

As it subsided, he stopped what he was doing and shook his head free from her hand sharply and the afterglow of her pleasure was slightly marred as she remembered his fury the first time she had attempted to touch his skull. But he only sat up with a short, hard laugh and swatted her lightly on the thigh.

"Nice kid," he shifted up on the bed to lie beside her, reaching across her body to get their wine, then smirking down at her, his face heavily shadowed but not concealing the smugness in his eyes. "Real nice."


	24. Chapter 23

**TWENTY THREE**

It was a week later that Ella left Jean's place with a distinct spring in her step, her hair shining brightly in the late-Autumn sun and her hips swaying prettily back and forth. Jean was recovering well, her spirits and sense-of-self much buoyed by Itchy's attention. Although the gangster was hardly at her side, he saw to it that everything she needed was delivered to her and had finished most of his nights at her apartment. Ella was relieved on behalf of her friend although she did not care to think about what the outcome may have been had Jean not sought the abortion - and Jean did not mention it, merely cooed over the flower and candy deliveries and squealed over the boxes of silk stockings and the fine negligees and peignoirs he gifted for her convalesence, glowing and reassured by the affection.

Ella had stopped by to visit every day for at least an hour, keeping her friend abreast of the gossip and goings-on at the Club Ritz - as well as the racy details of her own illicit liaisons with the mobster Flattop. Increasingly, Ella became less shy about what she was willing to divulge - particularly after the act he had performed on her after their dance at the Purple Crackle. Despite the excrutiating pleasure of it, she had remained conflicted even as she hoped to experience it again, and wanted to talk it over with someone she could trust.

Jean shrieked with laughter when she'd revealed what had happened, so hard that Ella feared she would hurt herself.

"Oh God, Ella, you've never had that done before?" Jean was near tears. "Damn, girl, you have been missing out!"

"Well, it's not like I've had a wealth of experience to choose from!" Ella said, a little indignantly.

Jean's coffee mug had jerked dangerously in her hand as she shook with laughter, propped upright against pillows in her bed.

"You are a pip!" she giggled. "Next you'll be telling me you haven't returned the favour."

Ella's wide-eyed and sombre straight-face sent Jean into peals of laughter again. "Jeezum crow, Ella," Jean gripped her friend's hand hard. "He must really think you're cute to be so patient. You know that, right?"

Ella had gazed at Jean warily, turning her cheek a little to the side, not really understanding. Jean had shaken her head, gulped down the rest of her coffee and followed quickly with a brief set of instructions so explicit, Ella's face had flushed as pink as the rose-coloured dress she wore.

**ooo**

Now she was back on her way to the Club Ritz, reflecting on her educational conversations with Jean, occasionally touching gloved fingers to her lips and shaking her head a little as she smiled to recollect. In a week she had been out twice more with Flattop, each time spending the evening at his apartment and finding herself becoming more accustomed to the luxury. There was never any discussion about going back to her own flat, a clear indication of his distaste towards it, but it was a relief to Ella who did not have to consequently worry herself sick over Mrs Brooks overhearing anything incriminating.

And while Flattop remained as inscrutable and unflappable as ever, she grew easier with him and his aloof ways. He spoke to her enough and while he was authoritative and presumptuous at all times, she ceased to feel quite so intimidated as she became accustomed to the nature of his personality. He remained tight-lipped about his business, the most indication that Ella had of it being the gun he wore perpetually holstered over his shoulder, the money he flashed freely and the rare evidence of drugs. It was becoming harder and harder to conceptualise the man she was - she had to admit - dating as a gangster or to imagine that what he was doing was all that dreadful.

She walked down the side alley to the back entrance of the Club, thinking smilingly about the last time she'd seen her unusual-looking boyfriend; he'd taken her to the Green Mill, the impressive roadhouse that spanned almost an entire block where they'd dined in the Della Robbia room and went for a quick stroll in the famous sunken gardens, modelled after the Moulin Rouge Gardens in Paris, and he'd told her about their charm in the summertime, with hundreds of people dancing, the lively bands and the twinkling lights strung between the trees and in the bushes - also mentioning casually he'd first arrived in Chicago in summer. She'd been as thrilled by that tiny snippet of personal information as by the opportunity to swank it out in such an illustrious venue and she'd thought the evening a very fine one.

As she came to the Club's back entrance, waving cheerily to Mumbles who waited by a black Ford Sedan and only nodded stoically back, the red door suddenly pushed open and she stepped back in surprise as a haggard looking man with an ashen, hang-dog face stepped out, followed immediately by Flattop, his expression indifferent, even distant.

For a moment she thought it was odd. Something was amiss about their interaction. The strange man and Flattop made no conversation, seemed barely aware of each other - and yet they clearly stepped out together. After a second, she realised: Flattop had one arm firmly around the man, his black-gloved hand tight on his shoulder. He was, in fact, guiding the strange man who gazed all about him with a haunted, empty expression as though the world was unrecognisable to him. Flattop's carriage was the same - tall, straight-backed and assured - but his companion's shoulders drooped and each foot seemed to weigh a ton as he lifted and replaced it on the alley paving.

Confused still, she made to say hello, a smile springing automatically to her cherry lips to greet the gangster she had become involved with, thinking the strange man must simply be one of his peers. But then she stopped as the stranger looked up - staring at her with the hollow, desperate eyes of the damned, though without a word.

Then Flattop saw her and narrowed his eyes. Without taking his hand from the man's shoulder or even changing slightly in posture, he spoke to her:

"Go inside, Ella."

And though his voice was quiet and measured, there was something in the tone of it that chilled her to the very core and she looked from Flattop to the strange man and realised something very horrible was going to happen.

But Flattop was leading the man onwards, to the Sedan where Mumbles was opening the door and the strange man was being pushed into the backseat with Flattop following close behind. Mumbles shut the door after them and then walked around toward the driver's seat. Flattop glanced out the window and saw Ella still standing there, gaping at them in confused horror, hovering between the car and the entrance to the club.

Flattop's brow puckered in an irritable scowl and he rapped the window sharply, then pointed a finger in the door's direction as Mumbles started the engine. Snapped out of her trance, she moved nervously towards the club, pulling the door open cautiously, slightly fearful the corridor would be choked with ugly, misshapen gangsters with their guns out. Behind her, the car drove smoothly, calmly, away.

But the corridor was empty, long and dark - and somehow, that was worse. She could swear, as she moved down it towards the dressing room, that she could feel the lingering disturbance of whatever ugliness had taken place. She hastened into the dressing room and shut the door hard behind her, unable to get the sight of that man's haunted, staring eyes - or Flattop's cold stare and

his heavy hand on the man's shoulder - out of her mind.

**ooo**

The incident stayed with Ella for the rest of the day, a sense of unease that settled in her stomach and refused to budge.

It grew as the evening fell and she dressed for the show, a gnawing anxiety that had her hands shaking so much she had to make several corrections to her make-up. She realised that she was dreading seeing Flattop later.

Ella told herself she didn't know what he had been taking the strange man away for. That it was silly to entertain such grotesque and unbearable ideas when there could be a dozen simple explanations for what she had seen. Perhaps the man was a business associate who had simply had a bereauvement and the mobsters had been driving him home as a show of camaraderie - that would explain his haunted look and the sobriety of Flattop's & Mumbles' manner. Explain it, yes - but what would, in other circumstances, seem a perfectly reasonable explanation, in this one seemed nothing less than preposterous and made Ella feel all the more nauseous. In this world of mobsters and crime, the simplest explanation was the most obvious. Something awful had been going to happen to that man, and at the hands of the gangster she was dating.

Ella did not want to go out into the club when the shows were over. Until now she had never been truly confronted with the reality of her boyfriend's work and it made her afraid of him in a way she hadn't been since those first few weeks at the Club Ritz. More so - because now she had been forced to witness something that made the dark world he inhabited more tangible to her. Something she could not so easily ignore. She thought about that strange man and wondered where he was now - wondered what his name had been - wondered if he had a family waiting for him - a family who would wait forever. As the girls in the dressing room around her all hastily tore off their costumes, yanked on stockings and girdles and shouted cheerily at each other as they got ready to go out or go home, Ella sat, unsettled and ill, at her dressing table feeling as though she were observing the world through a goldfish bowl - disconnected and alone even though surrounded.

Dolores was sashaying past, her shapely figure resplendant in scarlet silk, and Ella grabbed her by the wrist and entreated her to stop.

"Lorrie, pass on a message for me, won't you?"

Dolores paused and glanced down, her ebony eyebrows furrowing. "Sure honey - say, what's up? You don't look all that!"

Ella forced a little smile and placed a hand on her stomach. "Well, that's it, Lorrie - I've got a stomach upset. I just don't feel up to hitting the town tonight. Won't you pass it on to Flattop please?"

Dolores' sharp eyes noted the placement of Ella's hand and widened slightly. She eyed Ella then with an inquisitive brow but kept her voice neutral as she replied: "No problem. Go and rest up okay? Lightfoot's lemonade is fizzed enough as it is with Jeanie out."

Ella nodded tightly and Dolores departed.

Once she was changed, she hurried out the back way, her heels clicking sharply on the pavement as she trotted to the main street and hailed a cab. She wondered if Flattop would be very angry with her or if he would even think twice about it. Maybe he wasn't even in the club that night. She glanced out nervously through the cab's rear screen and crouched a little lower in the seat. In the darkness, it was harder to blink away the ashen face and harrowing stare of that man upon whose shoulder her boyfriend's hand had so heavily rested.


	25. Chapter 24

**TWENTY FOUR**

Ella locked her apartment door fast behind her, then wrung her hands as she moved into the kitchen, straight for the gin bottle. She was choked with a confusing mixture of feelings. As much as she desperately feared the flatheaded criminal she had become involved with, she didn't want to stop seeing him. As stoic and unforthcoming as he was, she was rather wretchedly growing attached to him - his strange composure and laidback machismo oddly attractive - yet the thought of him hurting people was unbearable. She didn't want to become involved with such things or tacitly excuse them by being with him either.

The obvious solution was to break it off - but she neither wanted to or was even really sure that she could. Ella sipped from her gin as she stood in her dark kitchen and wondered if her life was ever going to be normal or easy again.

There was an angry knock at the door, so abrupt she started and spilled her gin. She glanced down the hall, biting her lower lip, her anxiety intensified. There was no doubt in her mind who it would be.

Flattop pushed the door hard inwards as soon as she turned the handle. He brushed past her brusquely, the glower on his face the most animated emotion she may ever have seen him show.

She hurried after him as he strode into the living room, still in his immaculate tuxedo, hands thrust loosely in his pockets, tapping one foot on the faded rug when he came to a halt, his back to her.

Nervously, she hovered at the door and waited.

After a moment he turned to her, his lips twisted in a cynical frown, hooded eyes narrowed.

"Not feeling well, hm?" he sneered, his voice low and harsh.

Her heart pounded in her chest and her skin tingled but she lifted her chin and gazed back at him. "No. I'm not."

He tilted his head back a little, surveyed her. "Lorrie said it was gut trouble."

Ella nodded. "I've been queasy all day."

Flattop shifted his weight and lowered his head, fixing her with a fearsome stare.

"You knocked up?"

Ella was taken aback by the question and then remembered the suspicious way Dolores had eyeballed her back in the dressing room. Of course her mind would naturally leap to the most troublesome cause of female stomach complaints and no doubt she had insinuated that cause when communicating Ella's message to Flattop.

"No!" she cried back defensively. "No, I'm not."

Flattop raised one brow and eyed her skeptically.

"You better be straight with me, kiddo," he walked towards her, hands still casually jammed misleadingly in his pockets, betrayed by the tenseness of his shoulders.

Ella trembled and took a half step back, then held her ground. "I am," she cried, a note of hysteria in her voice. "I've been taking precautions. No thanks to you!"

Flattop stopped and blinked, evidently a little taken aback by her back talk. But it was only a split second and then he was composed once more, shoulders relaxing into their usual languid slope, his expression again indifferent.

"Watch your mouth, sweetheart," he said easily, then turned away toward the kitchen where the gin bottle stood on the counter. "And you better not ever keep somethin' like that from me. Already got one brat back in the Hills, don't need another."

Ella was shaken to the core by his revelation, her knees buckling so that she leaned up against the wall, the old flowered wallpaper crackling a little against her weight. A child! He had a child somewhere out there in the world! It was too awful to conscience because, if he had a child then that meant -

"You're married?" she heard herself query dully, her head rolling on her neck towards him as he poured himself a glass of neat gin.

Flattop shot her a disdainful glance then took a sip of the liquor. "What's it to ya?" he sneered and in a surge of sudden hysteria, Ella flung herself from the wall towards him and shrieked:

"Are you married, you ratfink?"

His hand flew up so quick she was not aware he had even moved until the slap connected with her cheek. He didn't put a lot of force behind it and it was more the shock that had her reeling, then blinking at him with quickly-watering eyes, her hand flying up to touch her cheek. Flattop stared down at her measuredly, hardness in his eyes.

"I said, watch your mouth," he pointed a gloved finger at her. "Don't make me hit you, Ella honey. I hate hittin' dames."

Ella gazed up at him, shaken. He'd barely touched her and there was no sting - he'd wanted simply to make a point. But she was still frightened and could not stop the two tears that slid down her cheeks though she then drew in a shaky breath to calm herself.

Flattop stared down at her dispassionately, his full lips slightly parted, then shook his head a little.

"I don't know what you want from me, Ella," he said bluntly and took another sip of the gin before grasping one of her hands and pushing the glass into it. "Seems to me I do just fine by you. You can be one damn dingy skirt but it's your company I keep any old style. So what's your beef here?"

Ella drank the gin with a shaking hand as he spoke, at a loss to explain to him why she was upset if he did not simply understand. A child by another woman with whom he was possibly still involved, the fact he was a crook, possibly even a killer - and finally, the realisation dawned on her, that he had come to see her not out of concern for her apparent illhealth, but to ensure she wasn't going to bring his life any extra complications.

"Who was that man, this afternoon?" she asked shakily over the rim of the glass, her eyes lowered.

From her peripheral, she saw him shift his weight.

"I told ya, my business ain't none of yours," he sniped.

"What did you do with him?" she pushed on recklessly, suddenly needing to know.

Flattop stepped forward and grasped her hard by the arms, giving her a little shake. She tipped her head back and gazed up at him, into a face that showed no expression save for a glint of fury deep in his hazel eyes.

"I ain't gonna tell you again, babe," he said through his teeth. "Ain't none of your concern. Now," he made a mockery of relenting, patting her shoulders firmly. "Don't make me worry about you."

Ella inhaled then felt her teeth grit. She knew the way she was behaving was madness, that she was pushing the collected gangster to the limit, but she seemed unable to stop. "As if you could!" she hissed back.

Flattop glared down at her for a moment, eyes narrowing, then abruptly his expression eased and he let go of her arms roughly with a short laugh, turning away from her and reaching into his jacket for his cigarettes.

"Is that what this is all about?" there was an undercurrent of amusement to his voice as he lit a cigarette and puffed. "You're sore cos you think I don't care about you illin'? Well, ain't that rich. Gettin' up in my grill like a right shrew just cos I ain't sweet-talkin' you like some sorta sucker. Ain't that just like a dame."

His last words were a statement, uttered with a shaking head and a little chuckle. He drew back on his cigarette and puffed the smoke out slowly, eyeing her with a little grin.

"C'mon, dollface, you and me have a swell time, so don't go screwin' it up with no feminine wiles nonsense, okay?"

Ella was both confounded and infuriated. Since Flattop had decided she was just being a silly little girl, his irritation had evaporated - only to be replaced with amused condescension. Even her outraged countenance evoked in him nothing more than a humouring smile and a click of his tongue as he stepped toward her again.

"C'mere and gimme a honey cooler," he drawled, wrapping an arm about her shoulders and bending his head to hers, kissing her.

Even as she bristled at being so patronised and wrestled with her dismay that not one thing that upset her had been resolved, the intensity of his kiss pulled her in so that she swooned slightly and gave in. His strong arms around her were deceptive - she felt suddenly safe and cared for and the lure of such sensation was impossible to resist after all the heartache she had been through that day. After all, she couldn't argue with the plain facts, however distorted and murky the rest of his story may be - he was here, with her. Not with Babs, or with any of the other girls she'd seen come and go, not even with the mother of his child. Just her - and didn't that mean she was special?

It had to.

Ella kissed Flattop fiercely back, finding that the longer she felt the strength of his arms and the solidness of his chest - the longer she was pressed against the body she was coming to know so well and find so much pleasure and comfort in - the more the memory of that strange man's haunted face dwindled and with it, the last remaining vestiges of her concern and fear.

Flattop finished the kiss and pulled away from her slowly, smirking a little as he looked down at her. "Now that's more like it," he drawled, petting her on the bottom. "C'mon, kiddo, get your coat. I wanna show you somethin'."

**ooo**

Parked in front of her building, a brilliant royal blue that winked beneath the street lamps, an impossibly fancy car sat, causing Ella to stop and stare as Flattop sauntered over to it and ran a gloved hand down the long nose of the hood.

"Not bad, huh?" he glanced back at her as she stepped over beside him, admiring the high sheen of the finish with wide eyes.

"Yours?" she queried softly and he snorted.

"No kiddin'. Fresh off the line. Cadillac V-16," the pride in Flattop's voice was unmistakeable as he walked around the car, his fingers caressing the full-figured woman with outstretched wings who adorned the hood. "Convertible sedan, one-four-six-inch wheelbase, sixteen cylinder engine, each one with its own exhaust and fuel system." Flattop popped the hood, revealing a complicated behemoth of an engine. "'S got hydraulic valve adjusters, total of four-fifty-two cubic inches, and all of it finished in chrome, aluminium, porcelain and enamel. Ain't no match for it out there."

Ella didn't understand a single word he was saying and didn't care much, but nodded along silently as he continued to admire the vehicle, seeming unable to take his eyes off it. "Four bar bumpers, fully-skirted fenders and vee'd grille," he slammed shut the hood and moved around to the driver's window, gesturing to the car's interior. "Pigskin leather upholstery, burled walnut panels inside," he finished with a note of satisfaction, then straighened up and leaned casually against the vehicle's side, regarding Ella implacably. "Six-thousand clams."

Ella felt her head grow light and seemed to sway on her feet a little as the cost of the impressive vehicle sunk in.

"Six thousand dollars?" she held herself gasp and he shrugged.

"Yeah. Well, Six-thousand, two-hundred and fifty. But, yannow. Round about." He cocked his head to the side and his lip quirked upwards a touch.

Ella stared at the car with its rich blue paint and black canvas top and felt a little ill. The concept of spending so much money - the same amount of money that could buy a house! - on a car was beyond all belief. That this man - this man she was dating - _screwing_ when it came right down to it - could spend so much, so easily in a time when so many people were going without - it was obscene and vulgar and terribly, horribly enticing.

Flattop smirked at her as she gazed, slack-jawed, at the car and then strode back around to the passenger's side and opened the door for her.

"Let's go for a ride," he said.

Ella could feel the power of the car thrumming around her as Flattop drove, steadily pushing down hard on the accelerator so that the houses crowding the streets zipped by. They had the radio on and turned up, the hottest Dixieland Jazz blaring through the speaker. The rich leather smelt new, its pebbled surface cool against her hands but quickly warming as she sat close beside Flattop and watched him drive. He was clearly enjoying himself, smirking as he sped through the city, smiling when he took the corners hard. He rounded one bend so hard the tyres squealed and Ella clung to him in fright but he only laughed in his husky way and pushed the car harder. Ella's heart pounded a stacatto rhythm in syncopation to the lively jazz and she rattled, jerked and shook in time with each bump on the road.

At such a late hour there was little traffic to be found on the streets, which was a relief - Flattop seemed to find a thrill in ducking and swerving around the other vehicles in an alarming manner and Ella wondered they hadn't been persued by the police yet. Though really, being pulled over for speeding was probably the least of Flattop Jones' concerns when it came to entanglements with law enforcement. Briefly, the memory of that vanished man rose up again, but she pushed it away and huddled next to the mobster as he drove down to the bay by the bridge.

The river was still and quiet, its dense darkness spotted with light reflection from the city swimming brilliantly on the surface. Flattop parked the car and sighed with a deep and languid satisfaction, gently holding onto the steering wheel and looking reflectively at it for a moment with langorous, affectionate eyes.

Ella thought that if he had been another man she might have found his obvious adoration of the car rather amusing - she may even have teased him a little for it. But she knew better than to do such a thing with the sort of man he was. Nonetheless she watched him keenly, realising she was being given another little insight into the parts that made up his whole.

After a moment he let go the wheel and reached over to squeeze her knee, turning his head a little to the side to glance at her, cupid's lips edging up at the corners just a touch.

Ella stared up into his hazel eyes, black in the dim light, and smiled a little back. "What a ride," she said, her voice a little forced.

He snorted then got abruptly out of the car.

Ella watched him go, a little surprised, hearing his feet crunch on the gravel as he walked around the car. She glanced back out over the river and wondered suddenly what they were doing there at all. An unwelcome recollection sprung up - that of bodies of gangsters and shaken-down business men being washed ashore - and shivered in the car, fear spiking her heart. Did the river now hold the cold, motionless body of that man she'd seen this afternoon? That man upon whose shoulder Flattop's hand had rested?

And why had he brought _her_ here?

The passenger door clicked as Flattop opened it and she started and stared at him as he held out his leather-gloved hand to her. She hesitated a moment, her heart again pounding, then took it, telling herself she was being ridiculous and hysterical.

He regarded her from lowered lids, then took her by the hips and tugged her close to him. Thrilled by his strength and the heat of his body in contrast to their gloomy surroundings and her own anxiety, she responded to the kiss fiercer than she expected, the only sound around them the steady lapping of the water at the bank.

Flattop finished the kiss, then opened the backdoor of the car, pulling from a specially installed brace an icebucket holding a bottle of Bollinger, followed by two champagne flutes. He handed them to her, then wrapped his fist around the bottle neck and twisted hard.

"Let's see how much of a ride it really was," he rasped and the cork popped, champagne fizzing excitedly out of the bottle and Ella squealed and sidestepped it as it splattered and hissed.

Flattop chuckled and filled their glasses, jamming the half-empty bottle into the gravel and then taking her by the hand to lead her around to the front of the cadillac.

"To having pretty things," he held up his glass to her and glanced first at the car and then, more lingeringly, at her, his eyes flickering from her face down her body. Ella flushed at the insinuation and glanced down, drinking quickly.

He drained his glass immediately, then came towards her, putting his hands about her waist and lifting her up onto the bonnet of the cadillac, settling her there before stepping back and stroking gloved fingers through her hair. Ella was a little surprised, resting a hand against the shiny hood for balance, trying not to spill her champagne or dig her heels against the paint.

"Now, how'd you like to get this on a postcard," Flattop muttered, gazing at them both and Ella realised this was about the best compliment he'd ever given her and was pleased enough to be struck with a little playfulness, lifting the champagne glass to her lips and striking a little pose, leaning back on one arm and looking up at him coyly from below her lashes.

He laughed a little, which pleased her, then came forward and took the glass from her hands, placing it down on the ground beside his own.

The nose of the car dipped as he slid his arms around her and pulled her in for a kiss. She clung to him, a little nervous about falling off, but he remained unconcerned, slipping a hand back around to delve inbetween her knees, urging her legs apart so he could stand inbetween them.

Immediately she tensed up, concerned about where things would head and sure enough, a moment later one hand began to work its way up her thigh, beneath her gown, his hand gripping her leg leather glove was smooth against her stocking, eliciting a pleasant tickle from her flesh that she fought to suppress. Flattop kissed her harder, his tongue pushing into her mouth, forcing her to submit to his desire. A cool breeze from the river whipped around them, bringing with it the scent of brine and ramming home all the harder how very public their situation was. While Ella continued to kiss him, her mind was frantically pondering how she could discourage his attentions, urge him to take them somewhere more private. She knew it was unlikely anyone would come across them down there at that lonely place, but nonetheless the whole situation seemed too vulgar to bear.

A moment later and he pulled his hand out from beneath the silk skirt of her dress and she felt a moment relief as he broke the kiss roughly and stepped back. But he was only pausing to tear off his gloves and shove them into his overcoat pocket, his brow puckered with fast-growing frustration and desire. When he stepped back to her, he yanked her hard against him and she felt his lust pushing hard into her groin. His lips pressed hotly against her neck and along her jaw, his breath coming hard and heavy in her ears. At any other time she would've been thrilled and responding with the fever she was coming to embrace, but right then she could not relax.

His hips moved away from her groin only to be replaced by his now-bare hand. He hissed a sigh out between his teeth when his fingers came into contact with her softest flesh, and bit the lobe of her ear gently. His hands were very adept at awakening her body now and she struggled against the pleasurable feeling as he caught her lips up in a kiss again.

Desperate now to be understood, she struggled against him, the car rocking beneath her with the movement, then grasped the wrist of the hand that worked at her. He pulled away from her with a frown, twisting his wrist easily free from her grip.

"What?" he snapped and she blanched, heart skittering, feeling disarrayed and confusingly both aroused and repelled.

"Not out here," she entreated in a whisper, as though fearful someone might be nearby to overhear.

Flattop snickered a little, mollified. "You are so damn cute," he chucked her under the chin, stepping close to her again. "There ain't no one around to care, baby doll."

She wiggled on the car, feeling again the total disconnect between their perspectives.

"It's just seems so cheap," she insisted, pushing down on his hands as they rose to touch her again.

This time he snorted. "Babe, there ain't nothin' cheap about this car," he caught her wrists up in his hands, bringing them down to her sides before releasing them to slide his arms around her waist again, quicker than she could stop him. "This car cost more than your whole damn life has to this date."

Ella felt slighted by that and burned with shame, wishing she knew how to counter such a remark, hating that he could see such a thing.

Flattop grasped her by the chin and forced her to look at him.

"What?" he demanded again. "Ya think I didn't grow up poor and wantin' more? Think I'm gonna pretend like I ain't made it good? Why's the truth always get you in such a twist anyway?"

His words stilled her, made her reflect on her feelings. Her family had always frowned on showiness and poor manners - things associated with the lower classes and they had _not_ been poor. Not rich, but most certainly not poor and there was nothing that horrified her mother more than the thought of being mistaken for lower class. She had violently detested what was known as _nouveau riche_, characterising them as typically vulgar and flashy - the means to live well but with none of the taste or breeding that came with custom and had drilled correct behaviour into her girls with all the force of a sergeant. They may not have been rich, but they could behave as though they were.

Flattop Jones as poor was a new thought to Ella, but it quickly began to make sense as she reflected on the many instances of his disdain for propriety. It wasn't hard to imagine such behaviour as far more than poor breeding - but an open message: he had the means to do what he wanted, as he wanted, no matter what anyone thought - money was power, especially right then.

Ella didn't want to have sex on the hood of a car - even a ridiculously expensive one - out in the open, on display. But she did begin to wonder why she felt that way and to remember that she had already broken a dozen of her mother's rules anyway. Looking at the gangster, she could see he was only half-interested in her answer, his own mind already well made up - and she had to admire than about him, that he was always so sure about himself, so absolutely convinced of his own actions and deeds.

"You make me think about things I never have before," she said to him, though not really as an answer.

His brow flickered and he half-grinned, seeming slightly perplexed. But a second later he was dismissive again. "Now what's a pretty thing like you need to worry about thinkin'?" He pushed her hair back over her ear and she gazed up at his odd face with its hooded eyes and pug nose, trying to work out if he were joking or not. Sometimes it was so hard to read him. He smirked at her ponderous expression and tweaked her lower lip. "There you go again. Quit it."

He tugged her to him and kissed her again and she went along with it easier this time. They never seemed really to resolve anything but somehow it didn't matter. He confounded her and she vexed him, yet she had no real desire to stop seeing him - and he seemed to want her around regardless. It seemed enough, in the end.

So she let him push her skirts up, the midnight blue of them mingling with the rich blue of the cadillac paint, and wrapped her legs around his waist as he tucked a hand beneath her buttocks, his other fumbling with the fastening of his trousers as he kissed her roughly, sucking quickly on her lip and flickering his tongue against hers.

The kiss broke when he pushed inside her and she clung hard to his shoulders and buried her face in his neck as another cool breeze whipped around them, chilling her thighs beneath the stockings, reminding her how exposed they were. She shut her eyes tight and breathed in the scent of his skin, not wanting to see the gleam of the city lights or the indigo sky above them. The car creaked beneath them, rocking hard with his thrusts and she tried to block the sound out, concentrating only on his harsh breathing, the way he felt moving inside her. Flattop gripped her hard and she heard him grunt a little and found herself tightening in response, which illicited a small note of appreciation from his throat.

He pushed her back down onto the hood, a hand on either side of her head, propping himself up to look down at her sprawled on the bonnet of his cadillac. His gaze grew hazy and satisfied as he looked her over, a hand sliding over her breast and squeezing it. In such a position, she could not hide from the knowledge of their all-too-public location, but she ignored it as best she could, focusing all her attention on him and the undeniably pleasurable feeling of him moving inside her.

Ella was too self-conscious to climax, but felt an immense contentment when he did, pushing his weight down on her for a moment and twining a hand in her hair, so hard he disarrayed its careful coif.

When he was finished, he sighed in the same satisfied way he had at the wheel of his new car and she felt immensely flattered.

Likewise was she pleased when he took her back to his place for the night instead of driving her home, giving her a glass of champagne to sip as he navigated the streets at a far more sedate pace.

"Thanks for helping me christen the caddy, kid," he drawled around a cigar and she surprised herself by not blushing at all, then attributed it to the champagne.

**ooo**

_Wow! Long time, no update. Just too busy and all - you know how it is! But I have not lost interest in this story, and given that I've been reading a few factual books about the 1920s - 1930s lately, I want all the more to return to it. More chapters coming!_


	26. Chapter 25

**TWENTY FIVE**

Dolores lowered the cigarette from her bright red lips and tapped ash into an ashtray as she grinned down at Ella.

"Doin' well, aint ya honey?" she said in a voice cheery with conspiracy.

Ella blinked up at her, pausing in the middle of powdering her shoulders. "Excuse me?" she queried.

Dolores shifted her weight where she was perched on the edge of Jean's table and shrugged.

"I ain''t seen Flattop Jones gad around with any moll this long in... well, I'm not sure I've ever seen it."

Ella flushed a little, then resumed pressing the powder puff across her collar bones and chest.

Dolores watched her for a moment and then pressed: "Well, ain't you happy to hear something like that?"

Ella placed the puff back in its box and picked up her lipstick. "Yes, of course I am - but I wonder if it's just because he's too busy to be bothered picking up someone new."

It had been three nights since Ella had last seen the goon and, whilst she knew by now what to expect, she was a little miffed by it all. Disturbed to find she was missing his company rather badly and with no indication from him that he felt the same, it put her humour further out of sorts.

"Oh pft," Dolores waved her cigarette dismissively around. "That just comes with the territory - and Mr Jones would rather work than do anything else so any dame of his comes off a bit worse than the rest of us. He handles it by going through girls like tommy guns go through bullets. So, " Dolores pointed her cigarette at Ella and grinned again. "Either you've been smart enough not to complain, or he may be a little smitten."

Ella finished applying her lipstick and sighed. The thought of the impervious mobster having actual feelings for her was a wonderfully seductive one and even as she cautioned herself not to lose her head, Dolores' suggestion took seed in her heart. "Maybe..." she said, a little wistfully. She glanced up at Dolores with wide eyes. "Not that he gives anything away."

Dolores hopped off Jean's table and bent at the waist to glance at her reflection in the mirror, lifting a hand behind her ear to manipulate her ruby and diamond earrings so they caught the light and sparkled. "That's his style," Dolores said indifferently. "Don't take it personally. Jesus, have you ever seen him get carried away with anything? Well - " Dolores straightened up and snickered. " - apart from when you're carrying him away that is!" she nudged Ella and laughed.

Ella shook her head and stood up to unfasten her girdle, ready to change into her costume for the evening. "Even then he's cool as a cuke," she said a little dourly and Dolores stepped back and gazed at Ella in astonishment.

"Jeezum crow, kid - I can't believe you didn't blush!" she cried and Ella realised with a start that she hadn't - that she hadn't even been embarrssed by the remark. But that realisation did shame her a little and she turned away from Dolores quickly to retrieve the red and gold spangled leotard with the bustle that was the costume for the first number.

"There we go, that's the Ella I know," Dolores teased, then moved on: "Don't surprise me really - keeping it together is probably part of the thrill for him. At the very least you're keeping him satisfied or he'd definitely have moved on by now."

Ella remained silent as she twisted her arms behind her to fasten the snaps holding the costume together. Of course, that was it. Smitten - ha! Not likely.

Before the conversation could continue, the door flew open and Jean swept in, looking a great deal more healthy than she had for a while in white and periwinkle blue, her hair freshly done and shining around her face.

"I brought the cointreau, kids!" She sang, holding aloft the bottle and a smattering of applause went around the half-empty room, women in various state of undress as they prepared themselves for the evening's work.

"Sick of being back yet?" Dolores drawled, lighting herself another cigarrette.

Jean scoffed and dumped her purse and bottle onto her dressing table. "Never!" she declared, giving Ella a quick hug. "It's a damn relief to come in - and know everything's back to normal!"

**ooo**

Flattop was there that evening, at Big Boy's table. Everytime Ella caught sight of him from the stage, he was puffing languidly on a cigar, occasionally engaged in distracted conversation with the gangsters sitting next to him - and always staring at Ella.

It made her simultaneously nervous and confident. Looking back at him was a distraction that threatened to throw her steps out, but knowing his attention was riveted on her made her strive to perform better. She was long accustomed to the flirty moves and sassy flourishes she was expected to put on, but somehow she managed to make her hips swing that bit harder and her smile that bit cheekier. Knowing he was watching her injected new interest into routines she could do in her sleep. And as she performed, she found herself wondering briefly if he was thinking about her body beneath the costume - the body he was familiar with, that he could imagine vividly when no one else in the room could. Pondering those thoughts, she began to feel as though she were dancing only for him.

He was at the bar with Itchy, Mumbles, B.B. Eyes and Ribs Mocco, the five of them seeming relaxed and jovial as they conversed over cigars and cocktails. B.B. Eyes had with him a girl Ella and Jean didn't know, but Mumbles and Ribs were alone.

Jean bounded over to Itchy with a beaming smile and he turned to give her a tight embrace, exclaiming "hey sweetheart, weren't you the thing!" in his nasal voice as he did so, their enthusiastic greeting disrupting the clustered group. Flattop shot the lovers a vaguely disdainful look, but half-smiled at Ella as she stepped up next to him.

"Hey kid," he greeted her, kissing her quickly on the cheek, but then turning back to the other men to continue his conversation. Ella was disappointed, having carefully chosen a revoltingly expensive peach silk lace and tulle evening dress, its skirt composed of a dozen cascading floaty layers, in the hopes it would catch his eye and please him. But he didn't seem to notice at all, much less seem particularly glad to see her after three days apart. She pouted a little then caught Mumbles' eye who gave her a secret thumbs-up and an approving nod, and brightened. A little show of appreciation was a welcome thing.

"Swell show tonight, ladies," B.B. said, introducing his girl, Cathy, to Jean and Ella.

"Top shelf," Ribs agreed.

"Bzknz," Mumbles concurred with the others.

"Best lookin' dames up there," Itchy nuzzled Jean's neck whilst scratching feverishly at his own.

Flattop said nothing, but his gloved hand pressed against the small of Ella's back and she was glad.

"Check - out - these - girls!" the bellow broke out over the band, Big Boy advancing on the clustered group, a sullen and silent Breathless in tow, his thunderous voice seeming a Napoleonic compensation for his small stature. Pruneface and Dolores were with him and Big Boy gestured expansively to Dolores, Jean and Ella, looking around the room at his fellow gangsters. "How about that show, huh? Won't see a show that damn flash anywhere in this city - " Big Boy pulled up short and stabbed the air with a finger, his voice lowering. " - best damn show, best damn girls, in the whole of this dump of a town." His voice rose again: "Best damn singer - " and here, without even looking at her, he soundly slapped Breathess' rump so that the chanteuse shut her eyes in the merest betrayal of humiliation. " - and best damn dancers!"

"Swell stuff, Big Boy," Ribs agreed, his baritone voice rolling around the mouthful of cigar smoke he exhaled. "Villa Venice gotta put bare titties on stage just to match up."

Ella was mortified by the language, but the men just chuckled and Big Boy leaned over to Ribs, customarily wide-eyed for emphasis, once again raising his finger. "In my joint, it's all class," he said in a voice close to a whisper. "This ain't no burlesque theater! The shmoe's can go to one of those _after_ they been here to be put in the mood. And, as it happens, I own the deeds to the top two in town!"

The mobsters snickered and nudged each other and Ella stole a glance at Flattop. She was a little surprised to see he wasn't chuckling along with the rest of them, just standing there in his usual composed way with hands in his pockets, a tight, sardonic smile on his face, looking at Big Boy with what Ella thought was the vaguest contempt.

Big Boy's eyes roved the group and then fell on Ella, standing close to Flattop. She inwardly cringed as that wide, manic stare fixed on her for a moment before the mob boss began to speak:

"Well hello! And who might this pretty creature you have here be, Flattop?"

Ella was both relieved and mildly insulted to not be remembered after the public dressing-down he'd given her that first day she'd been here but there was hardly anything she could say. Flattop put his arm around her and gave her shoulder a squeeze.

"This is my girl, Big Boy. Ella Daniels."

"Miss Daniels!" Big Boy bellowed so that all eyes in the vicinity were now fixed on her and she felt herself starting to blush. "Well, let me tell you, young lady - " he leaned in close to her so that she could see each individual bristly hair of his pencil-thin moustache above his curved lips and gripped her other shoulder hard. "You are one very lucky girl. This!" and he let go her shoulder to reach up and clap Flattop's, who stood there typically expressionless. "is my best man. Alright? My best. Bar none!"

When Big Boy took the floor, with his gradiating voice and expansive mannerisms, it was impossible to focus on anything else. The others hung back quietly and Ella wondered a little how the other men might be feeling to hear this - if there were such a thing as professional pride amongst crooks. She dared a glance up at Flattop, who seemed merely amused by Big Boy's show, his cupid's lips curved in the tiniest of smiles, his eyes hooded and contemptuous, though Big Boy was oblivious.

"No one can do what your boyfriend can do," Big Boy continued, his voice continuing in its customary rise before the inevitable drop: "No one. That's why I had him brought in and he does me proud _every. Single. Day! _So," Big Boy raised his finger and waggled it at her in a paternal fashion. "You just make sure you show him plenty of appreciation."

At this Flattop blinked and glanced away as though resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Ella clasped her hands together in front of her and strove to overcome her embarrassment.

"I try to, Sir," she said quietly and behind Big Boy, the group of gangsters and molls fought back smiles and snickers.

Big Boy pet her roughly on the head. "Good girl," he muttered distractedly, then whirled on his heel, grasping Breathless by the hand and tugging her away with him. Pruneface and Dolores stayed behind with the group. As he left, Big Boy half twisted back, pointing a finger backwards to the group

"I need somebody to go over to the East Side Liquor runs and chase up some outstanding invoices. Decide amongst yourselves but get it done _tonight_!"

A round of groans went around the mobsters as they shifted irritably in their tuxedos and exchanged scowls, Flattop excepted. He had fixed his hazel eyes on the top of Ella's head, full lips slighly pursed.

"I ain't had a full night off in over a week," Itchy grumbled. "I got an itch I wanted to scratch off on the dancefloor of the Purple Crackle."

Ribs Mocca snorted, the nostrils of his long pointed nose flaring. "Youse mugs got any ideas how many businesses I manage that pay up to Big Boy as it is? I ain't goin'."

Flattop reached out with his gloved fingers and carefully smoothed the hair that Big Boy's marauding hand had dishevelled atop Ella's head. His expression didn't change but there was a sour glint in his eye.

B.B. Eyes put a hand around Cathy's waist and tugged her in against him. "I ain't dumpin' my new girl first damn time I promised to take her to the Rialto," a remark that made Ella turn wide and impressed eyes upon him, unable to help comparing his attitude to that of Flattop's. "Mumbles ain't got no girl, he can go."

Mumbles' hangdog expression livened up - although he seemed accepting of his fate, he was willing to put up a little bit of a fight: "Nwthtantfar,BB. ."

"Shut your goddamn pieholes," Flattop sneered suddenly in so brusque a fashion the other men did immediately quieten and look askance at him. He glared at them all belligerently, unperturbed, then announced: "I'll go."

Ella stared up at him, dismayed, as he took his cigarettes from his pocket and lit one nonchalantly before drawling: "Anything to shut you bawling sissies up."

B.B. hawwed and adjusted his tie. "Come on now, Flattop," he grumbled. "Ain't no need to get like that."

Flattop took another drag on his cigarette and exhaled, gazing calmly at B.B.

"Anyone would think you crumbs ain't got no pride at all," he said coolly, then shot a narrow-eyed glance at Itchy who sidled his eyes away, scratching nervously behind one ear.

Ella caught Jean's sympathetic eye and lowered her head, struggling with the disappointment she felt. She wanted badly to complain, to say it wasn't fair and why couldn't he just put her first for once, like B.B. Eyes was doing with Cathy, but she knew better, plain and simple.

Ribs Mocca stared at her and snorted suddenly, thrusting his hands into his trouser pockets and leaning back so his rotund belly protruded yet further.

"You're a boob, Flattop," he sneered and Flattop moved his meaty neck slowly to stare levelly at him. "You got this sweet cherry here all ripe and juicy for ya, got the whole night off and all the dough to live it up and you wanna go back to work? The Brow had you pegged - you are right screwloose."

The entire group was silent, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Itchy stared warily at his oft-companion, anxiously scratching his chest. Mumbles seemed to shrink back as if hoping to disappear into the bar. B.B. Eyes looked coolly wary but Ella saw him shift a hand to his pocket and wondered if he kept brass knuckles in there, as she knew Flattop did. Pruneface glowered impatiently as though his time was too valuable for this macho posturing. And Ribs, half a head shorter than Flattop, held the flat-headed mobster's eye and lit a cigarette of his own. But the flame on the match flickered just a touch as his hand shook and Flattop marked it and smirked.

"She'll keep," he said finally, shrugging easily and the tension was broken as the gangsters marked the subtle joke tying to Ribs' remark about her supposed 'ripeness', and chuckled. But Ella was stung, the public rejection making her feel small and worthless, as disposable as a tissue.

Ribs sucked on his cigarette and eyed Ella with eyes set deep into fleshy hollows. There was interest there but also, strangely, a fatherly compassion.

"Now see, you broked the muffin's heart. No reason she shouldn't have a fun night out on the town, Flattop - let me take her out for you, I'll make sure she's treated right and get her home safe and sound."

He smiled kindly at Ella and she found herself smiling back. There was nothing sleazy or predatory in his manner or voice and Ella rather thought he genuinely wanted to be kind. But Flattop felt differently.

He stepped through the group right in front of Ribs and tapped a thick finger hard on Ribs' chest.

"You ain't takin' nothin' of mine out, Mocca, so back off," he said through clenched teeth, though his voice remained level. "And I ain't gonna say that again. Keep your stinkin' mitts to yourself or I'll be takin' _you_ out. Got it?"

Itchy put an arm around Jean and Pruneface snapped a finger and with a jerk of his head indicated Dolores should step over to the other girls. The three uninvolved men hovered back, watching the proceedings between Flattop and Ribs alertly but not willing to break it up just yet. Ella's chest was tight with breathless anxiety and yet she was enthralled, staring at Flattop's discontented expression with hungry eyes.

Ribs' eyes narrowed and his thin mouth fixed into a straight line. "Take it easy, Jones," he grumbled. "Just seemed like a rough deal to serve a sweet kid. Let the skirt stay at home then - ain't no skin off my nose. Don't go getting your knickers in a twist, ain't nothin' was meant by it. We're pals, you and me, remember."

Flattop stared down at Ribs for a long moment, hazel eyes hard as flint. Then suddenly he stepped back, relaxed and smiling.

"Yeah sure, Ribs. We're pals."

The men all relaxed around him and shook his hand as they said thanks to his offer to take care of the business that had threatened to delay their evening out. Dolores and Jean exchanged long-suffering looks and Cathy fished around in her purse for her lipstick, clearly having long ago gotten used to such altercations, establishing herself as a professional moll just like her heavy makeup and flashy rings had first suggested.

As the group finished up their drinks and began making a shift towards the door, Flattop returned to Ella's side, looming over her with a flinty expression.

"You," he said holding up a gloved finger. "You go straight home tonight, you got that?"

It wasn't fair, but she knew it didn't matter.

"Yes, I get it, Mr. Jones," she said sullenly and he grasped her by the arm and turned her roughly to the door.

"Keep your lip to yourself, babe, and go get a cab. You know the score."

Flattop gave her a little push and then turned away from the group, heading to the back of the club. Smarting all the more he could not suffer himself to be gentleman enough to walk her to a cab, she pushed her lips out in a pout, glared at his retreating back and then called out across the club:

"Mr Mocca! Mr Mocca!"

The gangster in question looked over his shoulder to her, brows furrowed queryingly and without looking behind her, Ella darted through the club to his side, smiling at him brightly and slipping her arm through his.

"Won't you walk me to a cab? I do so hate going out on the streets alone at this hour," she cooed and his round face broke into a flattered and paternal grin.

"Of course, honey!"

**ooo**

_Holleeeeee guacamole! Has it really been so long since updates? I'm sure it seems like I'd abandoned this story (for those few who care!) and I was worried for a bit it might even come to pass, seeing as how this last year really hasn't been one of my best... but I held onto the determination to see it through to the end._

_Honestly? This chapter, and a couple of others I haven't uploaded yet, were already written before the last time I updated six or so months ago. But recently I got the opportunity and space to sit down and bang out a couple more chapters and I have high hopes that this story will eventually be complete and maybe even push me over the 1,000,000 word goal I'm aiming to get archived on this site! Yippee!_

_I hope a few people will continue to give it a chance, despite how long the updates have been delayed, and if you read please do review... concrit welcome._

_Thanks for hanging in there!_


	27. Chapter 26

**TWENTY SIX**

Later on in her humble flat, Ella reflected on what she had learned about Flattop Jones that evening. His quickness to establish his proprietary feelings towards her had her smiling warmly into her mug of cocoa as she snuggled in bed with the side-table lamp on and an Agatha Christie _Hercule Poirot _mystery in hand. The gangster's deeply-embedded fury and its accompanying aggressive expression flooded her with golden pleasure to recall, her cheeks hot as she cosied up in bed, unable to concentrate on either her book or the fan magazine. After a while, she tossed them both aside and switched on the radio, finding a jazz station and floating away to the piping melodies to fancies of the complicated gangster. To think, after all that cool nonchalance, there was a rather simple way to ruffle the smooth criminal's feathers. It was more than a little gratifying, in the wake of all his seeming indifference, his callous neglect of her, to watch him be so provoked.

Mocca had walked her to a cab, an arm protectively about her shoulders, taking the opportunity to posture in a manner a comedian could easily exploit for caricature. She found it sweet in an old-fashioned way, although she could not regard the older crook as anything other than parental. Still, his consideration in the wake of Flattop's possessiveness made her feel wonderfully flattered and the idea of the two mobsters vying - in their own ways - for her attention was a bolster to her too-oft bruised ego.

She knew her flat-headed boyfriend would've been angered had he observed her flirtation with Ribs, but now that she knew the way to scatter his constant composure, she couldn't resist trying to push it. She yearned for greater shows of feeling from him, more display of what emotion she hoped he had for her. It was the one card that she held in their torrid affair, and she was going to keep it close...

She must've drifted off to sleep after that, because all of a sudden she was starting upright and there was a figure looming over her bed.

Ella started to scream, the noise strangling in her throat as she discerned the distinctive flat skull in the dim light of her bedroom. She clutched a hand at her throat and panted as her mobster boyfriend's lips quirked in a smirk.

"Relax," he clipped. "'S'just me."

Still alarmed and breathless, she snatched the quilt to her bosom as though she still had modesty to defend around him. His sudden appearance had unnerved her. "How - how did you get in?"

Flattop sniffed, and then held up a small lock-pick kit. "Door-jimmyin' was one of the first things I ever learned," he drawled smugly, then slipped the kit into the inner pocket of his jacket. "And don't sweat it - you woke up right after I walked in. I called your name."

Flattop turned away from her, shrugging the jacket off his shoulders and slipping off his shoes. Ella looked about her a little dazedly and smoothed her hair back. Her piqued vulnerability was giving way as she watched him, his back to her, as he cracked his knuckles, stretched and then sighed, sounding weary. She realised then that, desite his distaste for her shabby dwellings, he had still come to her when his business was finished.

"How was work?" she queried him softly and he half-glanced at her over his shoulder before tugging at his bow-tie.

"Hows about a drink, baby?"

"Boring," he said when she returned with the double-measure of gin and she looked at him in confusion for a moment before she realised he was answering her earlier query. He was sitting on her bed, shoulders hunched over with forearms resting on his thighs. Ella looked onto his discontented expression and the weary slope of his shoulders and wanted to cheer him. Flattop took several large gulps of his drink and then swirled the liquor in the glass, gazing into its clearness. "Same old," he muttered. "Too easy. Get me a cigarette, kid."

Ella moved over to his jacket, fishing about in the pockets for what he had requested, feeling rather pleased at this show of trust. When she found his case and the gas lighter, she withdrew one of the thin cylinders and took it back over to him. He drained his drink and held out his hand for the cigarette but she surprised both of them by placing it between her own lips and spinning the wheel on the lighter so that the flame ignited, concentrating hard on the tip of the fag as it struggled to light.

"Suck back," Flattop instructed her and clumsily, she did so and the tip glowed red as the tobacco ignited. She coughed as she took the cigarette from her mouth and handed it to him.. Flattop gazed up at her, an amused and slightly quizzical tilt to his lips before lifting the cigarette and taking a long draw. She moved to her bedside table and drank the vestiges of her now-cold cocoa to chase away the foul taste that was gagging her.

Flattop sat on the edge of the bed, in singlet and slacks, braces limp on the mattress. "That was a real pretty dress you was wearin' earlier," he said, contemplating his cigarette. "Show me again."

Mildly surprised, Ella complied, moving over to the wardrobe to pull out the confection of peach tulle and lace. He really could be the most curious man - she could swear he never noted in the least what she wore, then all of a sudden he would pop out with a sharp observation.

She held the dress up on its hanger for him to see from across the room, the scent of her perfume wafting up from where it clung to the diaphonous layers of the garment. Flattop raised narrow eyes to it, puffed on his cigarette, then jerked his head.

"Bring it over."

Wondering, she obeyed and he motioned for her to sit beside him.

His eyes roamed the pale fabric and he tilted his head back. "Catch a lotta eyes, strollin' 'round in gladrags like that," he observed casually, and reached over to where the dress lay across her lap, running one of the delicate layers between the fingers of his free hand, his thumb rubbing the textured fabric. "Which ain't no problem, so long as you don't go gettin' caught."

Secretly, her heart leapt to hear more of his jealousy and boldly she ran a hand over his shoulder with seductive affection. "I'm already caught," she cooed playfully and his eyes sidled to hers, eyebrows slightly raised, gazing at her levelly. His grip on the material of the dress tightened and he rubbed the fabric harder and when he spoke his voice was close to a whisper, steadily paced

"I don't ever wanna see you - makin' sweet with Ribs Mocca - or any other joe-blow in this fuckin' town - the way you did when you thought my back was turned tonight - ever again."

The timbre of his voice chilled her to the bone, robbing the scene of its previously cosy humour. Ella felt her heart shrink inside her, her skin flush with goosebumps and gazed at him fearfully. "I didn't think your back was turned," she said nervously.

Flattop's eyes flickered back down to the dress, his face still expressionless. "Don't try and play me for a sucker either, kiddo," he said flatly. "I don't like it." The hand holding the still-burning cigarette lifted and he contemplated the glowing tip for a moment before moving his gaze onto her face, running quickly down the bare flesh of her neck and then the smoothness of her naked arm. Ella's heart began to pound.

Flattop's other hand slid over the silk lace of the dress piled on her lap, to her wrist, which he grasped. Ella started, but then the hand holding the cigarette was moving closer and she was gasping in fear and disbelief. Flattop's expression was curiously detached, watching the orange-hot end of the cigarette get closer to the creamy flesh of Ella's arm. She felt the heat of it begin to scorch her and a strangled little noise escaped her throat, wavering between terror and incomprehension.

Flattop held it mere milimeters from her skin before his hand dropped abruptly and the smell of scorched silk rudely permeated the air. Ella heaved out a breath at once mortified and relieved as she watched the filthy hole be burned in the expensive new dress. Her eyes flooded with tears and her heart wrung.

Flattop lifted the cigarette back up to his lips and took a long drawl, pulling it right back into the final lungful. He crushed the cigarette in his hand, then let the smoke out of his lungs in one long, slow exhalation before standing up and walking to where his coat was slung over her dresser chair.

Ella gazed down at the ruined dress with tear-filled eyes, still trembling from her fright, struggling to fully understand what had just happened. But her confusion was far from finished.

Flattop walked back to her, wallet in hand, peeling note after crisp note out of its pocket.

"I don't got time to go shopping for no dame," he drawled. "But if you're steppin' out with me, I don't wanna see the same thing twice. So you take this and get what you like and let me know when you need more." He held out a hand full of cash and she stared at the green and white slips of paper with a stricken expression, the mutilated peach dress clutched to her bosom.

A flicker of a frown crossed his features and Flattop shook the money at her. "C'mon," he said irritably. "You do right by me and I'll make sure you're taken properly care of. All I want is the proper respect, okay?"

What was the money for? Was he buying her off for the violence he'd threatened or paying her for her - time? Ella was not so surprised by the bitterness of her thoughts as she might have been a few months earlier but it did not make her feel any less unclean or ill-treated. Swallowing hard against the tears that streamed steadily but silently down her cheeks, she turned her head away.

"You don't have to do that," she said quietly, her voice sounding bruised but steady.

Flattop scoffed. "I know exactly what I don't have to do," he snapped. "I do what I want to. Take the goddamn money." He flung the wad onto the bed beside her and she flinched and her tears flowed harder, the first sound of a sob choking in her throat.

Flattop stepped closer and reached down to wrench the spoiled frock from her lap and tossed it roughly across the room, She flinched again and ducked her head. "Damn it, Ellla," he growled. "You tryin' to play games, but I'm deadly serious. You disrespect me and expect me to go rollin' over like some kinda lovesick puppy? I'm givin' you a lesson and if you learn it, it never has to get rougher for ya. But make no mistake - if you keep tryin' to jerk me around, then I'll have to be a jerk back."

Then his hand was cupping her chin and forcibly tilting her head back, making her look up into his face where she was surprised to see, through the tears she blinked away, that his expression was unexpectedly soft. "But I don't wanna do that," he said and she could hear he was sincere. He let go her chin and stroked her cheek gently. "So don't make me," he finished with a sort of rough tenderness.

Ella knew there was something terribly wrong with what he was saying but couldn't seem to put her finger on what. Her thoughts were clouded entirely by the genuine note in his voice when he said he did not want to hurt her. She let him tug her to her feet and fold her in a tight embrace, her cheek pressed against his hard chest, strong arms wrapped around her. She shut her eyes and breathed into him, comforted.

"Take the money," she heard him drawl. "It's no difference to me, there's plenty more where that came from."

Ella drew in a shaky breath. "Just please - " she stammered. " - don't - don't treat me like - a - " her lip quivered and she shut her mouth and swallowed hard, unable to say the word.

"Like what?" the wry amusement had returrned to Flattop's voice and he grasped hold of her shoulers and held her at arm's length, smirking down at her slightly. "If you were my old lady, I'd be providin' for ya, wouldn't I? Hm?"

Ella's chin wavered, but she made no reply.

"So what's the difference?" he queried, a snicker in his tone. He bent over the bed and scooped up the scattered money, pressing it into her hands. "I know dames like nice things. They're hard enough to come by as it is, let alone during this stinkin' Depression. I know I ain't been givin' you enough. Hell, if you want another dress just like that one, go get it. Let me rip the next one off you and then you can go buy another, just the same again. Why the fuck not?"

His recklessness and easy manner coupled with his desire for her finally had her smile, realising the path of least resistance was to simply go along with him, despite her unease at this laissez-faire spending, illicit arrangement - and his hidden brutality.

He held up his glass again and waggled it. "Go get me another drink, kiddo, then come back and make my night interestin'."

**ooo**

_Oh my gosh! Another chapter so quick! Fair enough, this has been written for a while. Hope you enjoyed seeing this more threatening aspect to Flattop's nature. I know the subject of his 'business' has been more a side issue to the story but, well, this IS a romance fic and it IS through Ella's eyes and I wanted things to develop at a real pace. I've got the rest of the fic pretty much planned out so more and more will be revealed with time. _

_Thanks again to those who keep reading, I appreciate it heaps! Also, special shout-out to DCFanatic - I don't know how you found my fic but I'm super-glad you're enjoying it and have been wanting something of this nature for awhile! Cos you don't have an account I can't contact you personally to thank you, so I have to do it here!_

_Thanks to all other readers as well - I really appreciate you sticking with this story since it's quite an obscure fandom! Love and hugs!_


	28. Chapter 27

**TWENTY SEVEN**

A crook with a face like a squashed potato and a head as bald and shiny as a billiard ball swivelled his neck to watch Ella's progress across the club floor. It was a rainy grey Tuesday afternoon and Ella had run all the way from the busstop to the Ritz, her new chocolate-brown suede coat held over her head and shoulders in a near-vain attempt to protect her coiffure. Consequently, she arrived within the club's warm red walls breathless and flushed, the skin across her chest glistening, her bias-cut burgandy afternoon dress clinging to every curve, its scalloped skirt slightly damp. She thought she must look an absolute terror and ran a hand self-consciously over the pincurls that licked her neck as she hurried through the deserted club, all but one of the tables stacked with chairs.

But the unknown thug wore an expression of porcine appreciation as he watched her from the table he sat at alone, lazily leaning back in his chair to better watch her progress, increasing her self-consciousness. He pursed his smushed lips together and let out a low, long wolf-whistle as Ella wove her way around the empty tables.

Though Ella's confidence had certainly increased considerably since learning the art of flirtation from her fellow chorus girls, she found that once alone she reverted back to her customarily shy and nervous self and, after the still-lingering incident with Freddy, was ill-at-ease when isolated in strange male company. She ducked her head and picked up her pace a little toward the dressing rooms but the crook kicked out the chair next to him and called out to her:

"What's the rush, sweetheart? Siddown and cool your jets awhile."

Ella was flustered, unsure how to handle the situation. It was a big no-no to be rude to those Big Boy "did business with", but she hardly wanted to encourage him. Not to mention that Flattop's orders to her and her conduct with other men were fresh in her mind, that ugly incident being only a couple of days old. She managed a game smile at the leering mobster, holding her coat up to her chest protectively, not wanting even that modest triangle of pale flesh to be exposed to his greedy eyes.

"I'm sorry but I really have to be getting ready - "

The mobster tchh'd and shrugged his shoulders, sitting up straight and indicated the chair with one ham-like hand. "C'maahn! Just sit."

Abruptly, there was the hustle and clatter of people descending the stairs that led to the offices above and several goons came into view, mumbling lowly to each other, tapping out cigarettes and cigars, their brightly-coloured suits brilliant in the dismal afternoon gloom of the club.

Ella took advantage of the distraction to head quickly towards the dressing rooms, nodding politely to those faces she recognised, amongst them B.B. Eyes who eyed her beadily as per his namesake, though with a kind grin.

She rounded the corner and disappeared from view, then pulled to a halt to listen in, wanting to know if the strange crook would gripe at her rejection.

"Those sweet twists always figure they're too mucha somethin'," she overheard him grumble. "They want takin' down a peg or two."

Her heart pounded at the implicit threat, but B.B. laughed, a raspy sound. "Ya wanna watch where you're tryin' to hang yer hat, Cueball. That was Flattop's girl."

"Flattop?" Cueball now sounded alert - and suddenly nervous. "Flattop Jones?"

"I know of no other," B.B. drawled. "And he keeps a mighty close eye on her to boot."

There was a long silence and then Cueball coughed conspicuously. "Only asked her to sit down a minute."

Ella thought there was something of a grin about B.B.'s next words: "No need to say it to me, pal."

Silently, Ella stole down the hallway and ducked into the chorus dressing room, a sudden smile curving the corners of her lips. Though the exchange had been brief, Ella felt she had learned an awful lot from it - and what she learned had her heart swelling and her spirits buoyant.

Jean was sitting at her table, combing out her freshly set curls but paused when she caught sight of Ella's expression in the reflection of her mirror.

"Well," she drawled teasingly. "Looks like somebody's got good news! Nice coat", she added as an afterthought.

Ella had purchased the new garment - and a few others besides - with the money Flattop had given her - including, as he'd suggested, a replacement for the gown he had scorched. Whether as a balm to soothe her ragged nerves after his brutish behaviour or simply because she was - unbelievable to think - becoming accustomed to having money, Ella had not been at all her usual thrifty, scrupulous self. She had intended to be - but finding herself back in the same divine boutique where the first peach silk dress had been purchased and face to face once again with several other garments she had wistfully coveted, her resolve gave way.

Once done there, she had moved onto a fine lingerie store, her purchases there becoming more frivolous still, blushing even at the demure shop attendant's discreet manner, for she knew how obviously impractical her choices were.

Wealthy with expensive silk stockings as fine as any Jean had been gifted from Itchy, her thoughts had turned to her feet and, with a sense of reckless daring, she had pushed open the cobbler's doors and selected no less than four pairs of shoes - only one of which was practical for daywear and versatile enough to wear with anything.

She had rounded off her exravagance with a trip to the haberdashery - of all the items that composed a lady's wardrobe, hats were perhaps her favourite. A dazzling hat could dress up even the dullest ensemble and she was gifted with a bone structure that allowed her to wear almost any style superbly. Up until very recently she had only two simple, versatile hats and one fancy piece, but that day she departed with another two gorgeous examples of the craft - both intended to match very specifically to her favourite and most extravagant dresses.

Exhausted after the days lavish expenditure, but not fully spent, Ella had treated herself to a deluxe session at a high-end beauty salon - manicure, pedicure, facial, hair washed and set, body massaged - emerging at the end feeling like a new woman. The salon had kindly kept her many parcels and packages aside while she indulged and then had sent her home in a cab, not a penny left of Flattop's generosity.

The only diapppointment had been the arrival at her shabby premises - after a day of feeling like a princess, it was curiously disappointing - not to mention embarrassing - to have the cab pull up outside the ramshackle building, the driver assisting her upstairs with her goods, impressing all the more the contrast between her supposed means and apparent dwelling. She tipped the cabbie with a blush, not missing the curiosity on his otherwise polite face as he deposited her purchases just inside her door and then scolded herself for her ingratitude - she had, at least, a secure roof over her head and more new clothes than many girls in the city had seen for more than a year!

In the dressing room of the Club Ritz, Ella stroked the butter-soft suede of the coat and smiled brilliantly at her friend.

"Isn't it dreamy?" she sighed happily, drifting to the seat in front of her own mirrored table.

Jean raised an eyebrow and a smile quirked one corner of her mouth. "And what's got you so perky, missy moo?"

Ella wanted to effuse to her friend, but how to explain what exactly had her feeling so delighted? The affirmation that her boyfriend's attention to her had gone well-noted by his peers? That this more than anything else made it seem to her that he cared? That he held such obvious power amongst his fellows that they would warn each other away from her? Being known as his girl? His _girl_.

Jean simply laughed at her friend's giddy expression and drew her own conclusions: "Cream is churnin' smooth with Mr Jones?"

Ella giggled in reply. "B.B. called me his 'girl'."

Jean laughed again and resumed brushing her hair. "Well, I would think that was obvious by now, honey."

"Oh, I know," Ella picked up her own brush - a newly acquired Mason Pearson - and began fluffing up her own curls. "But still - it's nice that it's known. I mean - " and she grew a little bashful again. " - he hasn't made any declarations or anything like that."

Jean lowered her brush and turned toward Ella, her eyebrows high on her forehead. "I'd say he's made a fair few declarations, dollbaby - " then lifted one shoulder in concession, " - in his own way."

The door opened with a bang and Dolores swept in, shrugging her fur coat from her shoulders. "Phew! It's raining cats and dogs out there!" She clattered over to her table and flopped down on the cushioned seat, hauling the fur over her lap to examine. "Oh for the love of - damn rain! Who would think that in three steps between the cab and the canopy a gal could get so drenched?"

Jean rolled her eyes secretly at Ella and lit a cigarette. "Hang it up, honey, it'll dry. Minks don't carry umbrellas in the wild, you know!"

Dolores put up her nose, but hung the fine dark coat up near the heater. Ella had already hung up her suede, which steamed in the close room.

"Jeezum crow, seems you took a dunkin'!" Dolores exclaimed to Ella, noting how the dark suede was mottled from the wet.

"I had to run from the busstop," Ella explained as she leaned in close to the mirror to pencil her eyebrows.

Both Jean and Dolores paused to look at her with incredulous expressions.

"What are you still taking the bus for?" Jean queried disbelievingly. "All the way from over the bridge too? Don't you wanna sleep-in ever?"

Ella realised her thrifty ways had not changed so much after all. It had never occured to her to alter her habit of public transport - it was economic and she was accustomed to it. And, after all, most nights she was either escorted by Flattop in his Cadillac, or he paid the cab that took her home. A twice-daily habit of cabs to and from the club seemed an unnecessary luxury.

"I just - never thought of it," she said lamely and Dolores tittered and resumed disrobing while Jean shook her head and began mixing them a cocktail.

"Pretty sure Flattop Jones wouldn't want anyone seeing 'his girl' on the bus," she replied with pointed playfulness.

That gave Ella pause. She sensed quite definitely that the anvil-topped mobster would certainly object to her practical but humble means of travel. Then she squirmed in her seat, disliking the path her thoughts were taking. First, the keen shame she had felt at total strangers seeing where she lived - now, embarrassment over the way she journeyed to her job in front of two friends! And it was a perfectly respectable means... over eighty percent of the city used the bus system. Cars were not easily afforded, especially not at that time. Why should it matter?

But it seemed to matter - very much.

Dolores sighed and glanced about the room. "Wonder what the new girls will be like?"

Jean scoffed as she poured out three dry martinis. "The usual gaggle of down-on-their-luck hussies, as always. At least half of who will have screwed Lightfoot for the spot."

Ella was aware of a burning in her cheeks and made a show of powdering her face to mask it.

"New girls?" she asked.

"Yeah, sure," Jean said, proffering her a glass. "Every few months it's out with the old, in with the new 'round here. Big Boy likes to keep things "fresh"," she finished dryly then jerked her head towards the rest of the room.

Ella looked around and for the first time noticed that over half the dressing tables were now cleared of all personal effects - seeming forlorn and dusty in their emptiness.

"Oh my!" she said abruptly, with a sudden plummeting sensation in her stomach as she put herself in their recently departed coworkers' position - the position she knew only too well, having been in it only three months earlier.

Jean took a gulp of her drink and waved a hand. 'Relax, honey - you'd know about it by now if you were ousted. They wouldn't dump you."

Ella was intrigued and rather pleased. It seemed her talent had secured her an ongoing spot in the Club Ritz - she had stepped up to the challenge and made the grade.

"Just so long as you and Flattop stay cosy, ya got nothin' to worry about," Jean continued carelessly and Ella felt her heart arrested.

"Pardon me?" she queried in a little voice and Jean raised a sardonic eyebrow as she lifted the brush to touch up her lipstick, half of it smeared brilliant red around the rim of her glass.

"Miss Priss, the only way to get a permanent position 'round these parts is to become part of the family. You mean you didn't figure?"

Stricken, Ella picked up her glass and took a hearty swig of the strong cocktail. How vile and wretched this place was! Just as in the audition, her talent counted for nothing in keeping her place! If circumstances had never led her into Flattop's arms, it would be her without a job and desperate on the streets right now!

Confusing her distraught expression, Jean moved to put an arm around her friend's shoulders. "Aw, come on, sweetie, I toldja you don't have to worry - Flattop ain't goin' anywhere right now, believe me."

"It's not that," Ella shrugged Jean away, an uncharacteristic move that had the more experienced woman sitting back in surprise. "I just thought - oh, never mind!" That Jean didn't understand impressed upon her further how alien this world still was to her.

Ella saw Jean glance across the room to Dolores, who had been listening silently as she made up her face, gazing into her mirror. Then she caught Dolores rolling her eyes at Jean in the mirror's reflection.

Stung, Ella turned back to her own mirror, picking up a mascara brush and petulantly brushing at her eyelashes. Next to her, Jean sighed.

"Come on, Ella," she said in a voice tinged at once with exasperation and disappointment. "We all think it'd be swell if we made it on our own steam. But that ain't the world we live in. And me - well hell, way the country is right now, I'd sure rather be kickin' back in fur and diamonds than be wearing down my shoe leather and cracking my knuckles traisping 'round cleanin' houses," Jean ashed her cigarette and looked steadily at Ella. "Wouldn't you?"

Ella was shamed. "Of course I would," she muttered evasively, not looking back at Jean. She hadn't meant to imply judgement of her friends nor suggest it was ignoble to want a better life. Least of all she hadn't intended to give off the air she was above it all - though she had never told anyone, even Jean, what she had agreed to with Lightfoot in order to get the position, she would never forget it. Faced with poverty or security, her choice had been immediate. And suddenly, words that Flattop had spoken to her many weeks ago now floated back to her: "There ain't no dignity in dyin' broke and beggin'."

Her extravagance the week before seemed absolutely vulgar now when she recalled how many would eagerly swap places with her and she swallowed hard around the lump in her throat, her mouth quite dry.

She took another large sip of her drink and circled the glass in her lap as Jean completed her makeup with a hard expression. The only sound in the tense silence was that of Dolores across the room, brushing her hair. Ella glanced up at her reflection - her pretty, well-fed face, shining, cared-for hair and fine clothes and knew she did not want to trade it for what had come before.

"I'm sorry," she said softly to Jean, whose face immediately softened.

"It's okay, honey," Jean said understandingly. "The school of hard knocks got a lot of grades to pass."

**ooo**

_Holy Guacamole, another chapter! Yes, no matter what, I WILL finish this fic! It IS gonna take me a while but that's the way it is sometimes. I really do want to see this through to the end, but right now the best times for me to write are when I'm away from home in the country, with space and quiet and few pressures. That only happens occasionally. For those who don't know, I have very bad depression that I'm struggling with and that's been impacting on my life in various full-on ways._

_But I love this story and I AM gonna finish it and I hope everyone will keep reading and new readers will come and all the rest!_

_Please DO leave a review - concrit welcome! 3_

_Thanks, as always, for your support._


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